nyxs2

[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 29/?)

How do you stop the inevitable? Death doesn’t bargain, it doesn’t wait. Untouched by bargains or prayers. You can run, you can fight, but in the end… it always finds you.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 12,7K

Warnings: death, threats, blood and violence, graphic violence, description of deaths, attempted murder, hallucinations, reader being the killer machine that she is, PTSD, allusion to abuse and human experiments, minor character death, 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 28

Maybe you should have suspected that something was off.

Everything had been going too well lately. Every plan, every decision, every reckless move you'd made — they'd all somehow worked out. A streak of victories that didn't quite make sense, but you had let yourself believe. You'd let yourself hope. And now, that dangerous hope had come full circle to bite you.

You were returning from Viktor's home that night. The rain hadn't stopped yet. Still, you felt calm. Maybe it was the warmth of Viktor's voice still echoing in your ears, or the rare flicker of affection in his tired eyes. Maybe it was the illusion that you were finally safe. But the moment you stepped off the prison transport, everything shattered.

Red targeting lights flickered across your chest. You froze. Then, the unmistakable clicks and whines of cocked weapons surrounded you.

It felt like every Enforcer assigned to Stillwater was gathered in front of the prison, waiting only for you. No, expecting you. Rows of polished rifles pointed at your, cold expressions behind visors, and standing among them, just a few paces ahead of the rest, was Marcus.

You spotted him instantly. His uniform was soaked, the badge on his shoulder glinting faintly under the floodlights, but his face... his face betrayed him. He was trying to look calm, calculated — like the officer in control — but his eyes were full of panic. Not fear of you, no. Fear of what this moment might cost him.

Your fingers twitched by your side. You weighed your choices quickly — fight, or surrender. You could kill them. You knew that.

As Marcus approached, you stared him down. His steps were too precise, too deliberate — like he wasn't walking toward a prisoner, but toward a mistake he hadn't figured out how to fix.

"You sold me out?" you hissed, low enough that only he could hear.

He leaned in, pretending to negotiate, eyes darting to the guards around. "So Silco could kill me? Of course not." he muttered, his voice almost drowned by the rain. His hand moved toward his cuffs with practiced subtlety. But it wasn't just sleight of hand — it was desperation.

Silco.

The name hit you like a slap. You blinked, confused. Why would Marcus fear Silco's wrath? Unless... 

Your blood turned cold. 

That bastard told Silco where you were. How long had he known your location? Or rather, why didn't he come after you even though he knew where you were?

"He just showed up." Marcus added, voice strained, breathing fast. "I couldn't stop him."

"Who?"

He didn't look at you. Couldn't. "The one you've been looking for."

And it felt like something inside you collapsed. Whatever heat remained in your body was stolen by that one sentence. The rain wasn't what chilled you now — it was the sick realization that everything you feared had finally caught up. You felt like someone had stabbed you in the gut. And twisted.

"They've got the girl, so if you want to keep her breathing, cooperate."

"What?"

He finally looked at you, eyes full of something too dark to be pity. "Now you know how I felt, when you used to threaten my daughter. When you used her against me." he growled, voice sharp with bitter irony. "If you want your daughter to walk out of this alive, don't fuck this up."

Violet

They had your Violet.

And suddenly, surrender wasn't cowardice anymore.

It was strategy.

You wanted to snap back — to spit venom in Marcus's face, to remind him exactly who the hell you were. But instead, you bit your tongue hard enough to taste blood and raised your arms in surrender. He was a father, after all. And as much as you hated him — truly, deeply hated the man — the bastard was right.

You let him go through with his little performance, clasping the cuffs around your wrists like this charade meant something. As if that cheap scrap of metal was going to keep you from wrapping your fingers around someone's throat if you really wanted to. You could feel the Enforcers behind you, their boots pounding in perfect rhythm on the soaked concrete, weapons always ready — like you were some kind of monster barely held together. Maybe they were right.

Marcus walked ahead, all rigid posture and righteous authority, dragging you deeper into Stillwater — that iron tomb at the edge of the world. The squad followed like a shadow. Rain still poured from the heavens, soaking your clothes, clinging to your skin like guilt. You didn't fight it. You didn't speak. You saved your breath for the moment it would really count.

They led you through a series of heavy gates, until you reached the prison courtyard — a slab of stone surrounded by towers and silence. A small group had gathered there already, their figures lit by the floodlights above, casting long, eerie shadows over the cracked pavement. Your eyes swept across the gathering — trained instinct, counting bodies, measuring escape routes, cataloguing every threat and every weakness.

And then you froze.

Violet was there — shackled, soaked, and seething. Her bruised knuckles twitched like they were desperate to punch their way out of the cuffs, men around her pointing their guns at her head to make you aware that the slightest movement you made, your daughter would pay the consequences. But she wasn't the one who stopped you mid-step.

He was.

Standing calmly beneath a black umbrella, the rain barely daring to touch him, was the man whose presence poisoned the very air around him. The mask stared straight at you. Blank. Cold. Unmoving. And yet, somehow, you knew. You felt it. Behind that mask, he was smiling.

A deep, sickening chill ran down your spine. Rage twisted in your gut, flaring through every nerve. You wanted to scream, to break free and lunge for him — to tear the mask off and wipe that smug, silent grin from his face. But something else stopped you.

Fear.

You felt fear.

Not the kind you'd admit to, not the kind that makes you flinch — no, this was worse. This was a quiet, creeping dread that settled in your bones and whispered in your ear that no matter how strong you were, no matter how clever, he was already ten steps ahead. Your body remembered something your mind didn't want to — a primal warning, like your subconscious had abandoned reason altogether.

Because he wasn't a god. He wasn't some invincible being. He was just a man — a man you could kill.

And still... you feared him.

That fear lit a fire in your chest, a fury so bright it almost burned it away. You squared your shoulders, lifted your chin, refusing to let him see that part of you crack. But inside, you knew — the game had changed. And now, you were deep in the belly of it.

Stillwater wasn't just a prison.

It was a stage.

And the curtain had just risen.

There was one thing you had foolishly forgotten when you took on the mantle of "mother" to those girls: that love, no matter how fierce, is also weakness. And now, that weakness was glaringly obvious.

Your daughters.

They had become your anchor, your fuel — the fire in your blood that pushed you to do the impossible. But just as powerfully, they had become your chains. Because what is a mother's greatest vulnerability, if not her children?

And that bastard — he knew it. Knew it too well.

You could barely process what was happening as Marcus shoved you forward, his grip bruising against your arm. Violet looked like she was holding herself together by sheer will, but you knew her too well. That defiance in her stare? It could burn this whole place down if given the chance.

But even fire can be caged.

With a casual wave of a gloved hand of the man you once called Master, Marcus released you. You stumbled forward, water sloshing off your soaked clothes as your knees hit the cold, filthy ground. Forced to kneel. Of course. That was always his favorite position for you.

Your eyes rose, slowly.

He stood before you. His coat — tailored and immaculate — wasn't stained by a single drop of rain. His boots shone. His posture was that same effortless command he always carried, as if the world bent itself around him. And there you were, a sodden wreck, hair plastered to your face, mud on your skin, heart pounding loud enough to echo in your ears.

He looked down at you like a disappointed king surveying a broken knight. Or perhaps, an old dog that had wandered too far from the leash.

"You've been such a headache these last few years." he said, voice muffled slightly by the mask, but unmistakable in tone. Calm. Patronizing. Almost amused. You knew that voice better than your own. Then his head tilted ever so slightly, and his next words slid like poison down your spine. "How you've grown... still a beauty despite the filth."

Your stomach twisted, rage and nausea curdling together. But you didn't flinch. You wouldn't give him that satisfaction. But every fiber of your being screamed to strike him, to spit in his face, to tear him apart with your bare hands. Not because of what he'd just said, but because Violet was right there. Because she had to witness it. 

Because she didn't know the full story — the parts you were ashamed of — and you didn't want her to know. And you prefer to pretend they didn't happen.

He stepped closer. Overly confident that you would restrain yourself and not attack him as soon as he was within reach. And he was right; you held back so much that every fiber of your body was writhing in agony. You couldn't risk Violet's safety. So you would endure this man, you would endure the presence of the brutes behind you and the dozens of other Enforcers in that space, all too aware of your movements.

The masked figure leaned down with excruciating calm, his hand rising slowly — leather glove gleaming faintly under the prison lights — until his fingers hovered inches from your face. His touch had always been a warning, never a kindness. And as his index finger extended toward your chin to tilt your head upward, something in you snapped.

A growl ripped out of your throat before you even registered it — low, feral, the sound of a cornered beast. The second his finger grazed your skin, you lunged. Your teeth snapped shut where his hand had been just a heartbeat earlier. You missed — barely — but he still flinched. And then... he laughed.

A deep, satisfied chuckle.

"Still aggressive..." he said, voice dripping with dark amusement. "Pet."

That word. 

That damn word it tasted like bile in your mouth. Your chest heaved with fury, your eyes locked on him with a fire so blistering you could've sworn it burned through the mask. He wasn't taken aback. If anything, he looked pleased. Like a proud handler seeing an old mutt still bite the hand that broke it.

He crouched, leveling his gaze with yours — even with the mask, you felt his eyes boring into you.

"I remember the first time you tried that." he mused, like it was a pleasant memory. "Nearly tore off my finger when I offered you comfort. A little kindness." He tilted his head, mock pity lacing his voice. "Do you remember your punishment?"

You didn't answer. You didn't need to — your silence was loud. He did it for you anyway.

"No food." he said smoothly. "We wanted to punish you, of course. But more than that... we had a theory. We wanted to test how long you'd survive without sustenance. How far you'd go." His voice dropped an octave. "I still remember what we found days later. You, curled on that filthy mattress... gnawing at the frame like some rabid little animal."

His hand twitched, as if tempted to reach again, but he didn't. He only straightened, towering again. 

"Let her go."

Your voice was hoarse, raw from the cold and the growl you'd barely swallowed minutes ago. But it didn't shake. It cut through the tension like a blade in the dark. You weren't begging — You commanded, even from your knees.

He tilted his head with a soft, curious sound — a thoughtful "Hm?" muffled beneath the mask.

As if only now registering that Violet was there.

He turned toward her, the motion slow, casual, almost amused. She was still kneeling just a few feet away, her wrists bound behind her back, soaked to the bone. Her chin was up, defiant, but her eyes darted between you and him, piecing things together. She wasn't stupid.

He studied her as if she were some half-finished sculpture, then looked back at you, voice full of mock surprise. "Don't tell me you've grown attached to this little thing?"

His tone wasn't curious. It was disgusted.

You didn't answer. You kept your gaze steady, your silence loud — not out of shame, but defiance. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of hearing it. You wouldn't let him twist it into another weapon to hang over your head. But your silence, ironically, said everything. And he knew.

The scoff he let out was short, sharp — a sound of contempt more than disbelief.

"We trained you not to form attachments. No distractions. No sentiment. No weakness... And yet here you are. Playing mother to some filthy little orphan from Zaun." He exhaled, as if the very thought exhausted him. "Frankly..." his voice dipped into something colder, crueler, "You've managed to disappoint me even more than I thought possible."

His words hit like knives, not because they were unexpected — but because of the sheer familiarity. That same rhythm of degradation wrapped in false concern. It was never about discipline. It was about control. About reminding you that in his eyes, you were still his creation. Still property. Still something he could evaluate like a broken tool. Still his...

You laughed.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't joyful. It was dry and bitter — the kind of laugh that crackled like a fuse about to reach the powder.

"You shouldn't be so sure of yourself." your was voice low, dangerous, almost amused. "We both know those Enforcers wouldn't be enough to stop me... not if I really wanted to tear this place apart."

The guards behind you didn't react, but you felt their grip tighten subtly on their weapons. Good. Let them be nervous. They should be.

Your eyes locked on the mask again, that white and smooth surface hiding the man you once knew. "You want to keep calling me a pet? Fine. But remember... you made me what I am. So maybe I should give you a demonstration. Let you see firsthand just how destructive you managed to make me."

The air thickened with that single threat. For a breath, no one moved. Then, slowly, you began to rise. Because you wanted him to remember that you were never truly under his heel.

But before you could fully stand, two heavy pairs of hands landed on your shoulders.

Hard.

They forced you back down, driving your knees to the concrete once more, and you strangely didn't resist even though the threat was still fresh — not because you were defeated, but because your eyes had caught something that made your blood run cold. The movement of one of the guards next to Violet cocking his rifle and slamming the barrel into her temple.

That was the chain. That was always the chain. You could bear anything — torture, starvation, degradation — but you couldn't bear to see them touched. Seeing the people you loved suffer because of you.

You let yourself fall back into position because that gun was pointed at your daughter. And you would rather take the shot in her place.

"Well-trained." he said softly behind the mask, and you could hear the smug smile in his voice as he stepped away from you.

Your gaze followed him with fire in your veins.

He walked leisurely toward Violet. You watched her flinch at the sudden closeness, but she didn't look away. Violet never did. She was trembling, yes, but her jaw was tight, her eyes burning holes through the man like she could melt him with rage alone.

The masked figure crouched beside her, his umbrella hovering protectively above of both, and then — slowly, as if savoring every second — he reached out and gripped her chin.

Turned her face to you.

"She's quite something." he said, as if showing off a prize. "Defiant. Just like you are."

Your fists clenched so hard your nails broke skin.

"You can do whatever you like, pet." he continued smoothly, his voice calm, too calm, as if he had all the time in the world. "Fight. Burn. Bite. Rage." He gave Violet's face a small, almost gentle tilt. "But you... you'll carry the weight. You'll pay the price."

He turned Violet's head just slightly more — enough for you to see the confusion in her eyes flicker into fear.

"For every action, there is a reaction."

"GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER!"

Your voice cracked the air like a whip, raw and vicious, louder than you meant, louder than you'd dared to be in years. It wasn't a threat. It was a plea dressed as rage — a desperate, wounded sound that slipped past your teeth before you could pull it back.

But the hands on your shoulders only tightened in response, holding you in place, fingers digging into flesh like claws. The illusion of power you'd clung to shattered in that moment. He had you exactly where he wanted.

And your panic only amused him.

The masked figure didn't even look at you right away. Instead, he gently tilted Violet's face toward his own again, examining her like a craftsman assessing a piece of clay. He tilted his head — the gesture slow, disturbingly calm — as if truly considering what he was about to say.

"You know... If you're unwilling to cooperate." his head shifted just slightly — toward you. "We can always find a replacement."

He turned Violet's chin just a little more, as though inspecting her jawline, her eyes, her soul. His gloved thumb brushed her cheek in mock affection.

"This one... shows promise." Then came the laugh. Not loud, not mocking — but quiet, poisonous. It dripped from his throat like oil. "Maybe that little Zaunite rat will make a wonderful substitute for you. I'm sure she'll respond to... conditioning. And if she dies... well, we have the youngest to test."

The sound that came from your chest wasn't human. A broken, hollow gasp twisted with a snarl — but not out of anger this time.

Out of fear.

Pure, gut-wrenching, soul-tearing fear.

You couldn't see clearly anymore — not from the rain, not from the tears burning into your eyes, not from the blood rushing in your ears. For a moment, you weren't in that prison. You were somewhere else. Years ago. There. Strapped down. Starving. The sting of needles. The darkness. The screaming. The silence that followed. You remembered the smell of blood — your own — and the sound of your mind tearing itself apart just to survive.

NO.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

Not them... not your daughters.

Never any of them.

You had survived it once, by some miracle. You had clawed your way out, piece by piece, with bloodied hands and a mind full of scars. But they—Violet and Powder—they still had light. They still laughed. They still trusted. That light, that fire, couldn't be swallowed the way yours had been.

And if it had to be someone...

Let it be you.

Again and again.

Forever if needed.

The tension drained from your muscles. Your shoulders sagged beneath the grip of the enforcers, your spine caving in on itself. A surrender. Your knees hit the floor with full weight this time. No resistance. No pride left to protect. You let your head hang for a heartbeat, your hair sticking to your face, every inch of you soaked and trembling, the sting of shame twisting deep inside your ribs.

And then...

"Please..." The word was a whisper — fragile, raw, carved from the marrow of your bones. "She has nothing to do with this. Let her go."

The words hung in the cold air, and for a moment, there was only the sound of rain slamming against concrete, and your own heartbeat thundering in your ears.

You didn't dare lift your eyes to him. You could feel his gaze on you — heavy, sharp, dissecting. But you kept your eyes down, staring at the floor, as if maybe that would make it easier to say what needed to be said. As if it would hurt less not to see the satisfaction on his masked face.

"Let her walk out of here." you continued, choking back every instinct that screamed at you to stop. "And I'll go back."

You felt your throat close around the words. The taste of them was vile. The weight of them felt like chains tightening around your chest. You would rather die than that, but that decision was the greatest proof of love you could give. You would return to hell—your personal hell—without a second thought to protect Violet because that's what you were created to do. To protect the ones you loved with everything you had.

You've already lost your family once, and you wouldn't lose them again.

"I'll return to the Institute."

To the cage. To the pain. 

"For you..." you whispered, barely audible now. "I'll be good. I'll do what you want." Your jaw trembled. "Just let her go."

Then slowly — with a weight that felt like lifting the world — you raised your head.

The movement was reluctant, full of shame and defeat, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. You had to. You had to show him you meant it — that you were breaking, shattering, surrendering.

Your eyes locked onto the mask, your face hollow, soaked, and still streaked with tears. There was nothing left in you to shield yourself with.

"I'll be yours again... Master."

You swore you saw him straighten, just slightly. Like the word satisfied some long-buried hunger. Like your submission was a delicacy he had waited years to taste again. But he didn't speak. Not yet. He just watched you — patient, motionless, calculating.

But Violet reacted.

"NO!" she screamed, her voice cracking with disbelief and raw panic. She thrashed in his grasp, trying to twist away from the hand still holding her jaw, but he didn't loosen his grip. "NO! YOU CAN'T — YOU CAN'T DO THIS!"

Her body trembled as she tried to pull away from him, teeth bared, tears starting to gather in the corners of her eyes — not from fear, but from fury. From helplessness. "You think this'll save me?! You think he will let me go just because you beg?! He's playing with you!"

You flinched at her words — not because they were wrong, but because you knew, deep down, she might be right.

"You made a damn promise, so don't you dare break it!"

Her words landed like a blow to the chest, and you felt something inside you shatter. That promise. 'Never leave her again'. But there were promises... and then there was survival. And now you weren't surviving for yourself.

Her outburst sparked a tremor through your heart, but it also triggered something else. An idea. A thread of hope in the middle of all this ash.

If you gave them what they wanted — if you surrendered fully, convincingly — maybe he'd let her go. Maybe his ego, his hunger for power, would be satisfied enough to leave her out of it. And if Violet was safely out of reach, no longer within the blast radius, then — and only then — you could burn the rest of them down.

You couldn't move while she was here. Couldn't breathe, couldn't plan, couldn't even blink without the risk of her becoming collateral.

So you stayed still. Kneeling. Submissive. Waiting.

And finally, he reacted. With the slow grace of someone who knew they had already won, he released Violet from his grip. She staggered backward, chest heaving, but didn't retreat far.

He walked toward you, the sharp click of his boots nearly lost beneath the roar of the rain. His umbrella cast a distorted shadow over your crouched form, shielding you from the storm but offering no warmth. He knelt slowly, until his masked face was just inches from yours — unreadable, unnatural.

"You almost had me, I'll admit that much."

You barely flinched as his gloved fingers traced your neck, the touch mockingly gentle. You knew better. This wasn't affection. This was possession. And beneath the silk of his voice, you felt it — the shift. The trap. Something wasn't right.

"A shame..." he leaned in so close as if he was going to kiss you through the mask. "That I know you so well."

Before you could react — before the thought could even form — you heard the click. Cold metal snapped around your throat. A collar. Heavy and known. You didn't even get the chance to process it before it activated.

Agony.

It wasn't just pain — it was violation. White-hot electricity tore through your veins like fire laced with ice, ripping through muscle and nerve with merciless precision. Your back arched involuntarily, limbs convulsing, mouth open in a silent scream as the world narrowed to a single point of excruciating light.

You collapsed on the floor, twitching, the metallic taste of blood flooding your mouth. Distantly, you heard Vi scream your name — raw, broken. But her voice felt miles away, lost beneath the cruel hum of the device searing itself into your nervous system.

The electricity didn't just burn through your nerves — it seared your mind. It was nothing like the older version of the collar you had once worn, the one you'd long ago learned to endure. That pain had become familiar, even manageable. You had trained yourself to breathe through it, grit your teeth, wait it out.

But this...

This was designed to break you.

This wasn't control. It was execution disguised as discipline. The voltage felt like it was trying to cook you alive from the inside — like your brain was being boiled in your skull, every nerve ending screaming in protest. You could taste copper, bile, something raw and burning. Your vision cracked like glass.

And then you felt it. The two forces that wouldn't let you die.

It didn't dull the pain. It channeled it. Your vision blurred as it pushed against the limit of your collapsing body, fighting the collar's grip, stopping you from slipping into death. But the collar adapted. The voltage increased. You could feel your muscles twitching beyond your control, bones trembling under your own weight.

You weren't even conscious of the scream that tore itself from your throat — a sound part-animal, part-human, entirely you.

Your wrists flexed and the cuffs shattered.

Metal clanged to the ground with a sharp, final sound as your arms convulsed, now free but still locked in spasms. Your eyes were burning now, blood pouring from your nose, your chest heaving as your lungs struggled to remember how to work. You were beginning to be taken to that limbo your body placed you in when you were about to enter a state of death. Exactly like the times you tried to commit suicide in the mines.

But through the haze, a voice cut the air. A shout — panicked, urgent. Maybe an enforcer.

You forced your eyes open even if for a second. The world was chaos and light, but one shape stood clear.

Violet.

Somehow — gods, somehow — she had broken free. Her hands were bloody, face scraped and wild, but she moved like a storm. A brutal storm. One enforcer lay crumpled at her feet, her cuffs snapped around his neck. Another stood frozen, helpless, as Vi used him like a shield, her arm locked around his throat, one of their rifles aimed — steady, deadly — at him.

The masked bastard. He stood only a few feet away, still holding the umbrella, still untouched by the rain, watching the scene unfold with something that might have been amusement.

Time slowed.

It was like the world forgot how to move. Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes fixed on a glint — small, sharp — from one of the upper windows of the prison. Your heart dropped before your mind even fully registered what it was. A barrel. Long, matte black, just barely protruding through the window.

A sniper.

Your gaze snapped back down — and that's when the world moved again. The gun fired.

A single shot. One bullet, cutting through the rain like fate.

"VIOLET!"

Your scream tore out of you, raw and desperate, as your eyes locked with hers. In that exact, heart-shattering second, she looked back at you. Her face, fierce and unrelenting just moments ago, softened into something fragile — something real. And then everything shattered.

But you didn't see where the bullet landed.

You didn't see anything else at all.

You woke up.

Your entire body jolted like you'd been electrocuted again — arms flailing, lungs gasping as if you'd been drowning in your own mind. You tipped backward violently, the old wooden chair beneath you creaking once before it crashed to the floor, dragging your body down with it.

Your back hit the ground first, then your ass, then the back of your skull. Pain flared white behind your eyes as the air rushed from your lungs. You groaned, curling instinctively, hand cradling the side of your head while your pulse pounded in your ears like war drums.

And then... silence.

No collar.

No rain.

No masked figure.

You sat up slowly, confusion spreading through you like fog. Your vision swam, but you could still see enough to recognize the space around you — the dark wood beams, the warm amber lights, the smell of metal and old whiskey soaked into the floorboards. Familiar.

The Last Drop.

The old version. The one from your memories. Before everything fell apart. Before the blood and betrayal. Before the death. The air smelled of oil and damp stone, and in the background, a faint hum of old jazz played from a dusty jukebox.

And then — him.

"Hey... You alright?"

The voice hit you like another blow, but this one wasn't cruel. It was kind. Firm, grounding. You turned your head slowly, blinking past the pounding in your skull.

Vander.

He was moving around the bar, wiping his hands on a cloth, concern plain on his face. He rounded the edge of the counter and crouched beside you, steady and solid — like a mountain made flesh. His calloused fingers gently brushed your hair back, checking the bump forming on the back of your head.

"You took a nasty fall there." he muttered. "What was it... a nightmare?"

You sat there in stunned silence, your mind trying — and failing — to stitch logic over the frayed edges of what you were seeing. Nothing made sense. The cold concrete, the electric agony, Violet's voice screaming your name — they had all felt real. Too real. But this? It also seemed real.

Your hand moved on its own.

Trembling fingers reached up to touch his face — hesitant, as if expecting him to vanish the moment you made contact. But he didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. His skin was rough under your fingertips, warm with life and time, marked by years of fights and sacrifice. His eyes — those unmistakable eyes — met yours with a softness that only made the ache in your chest sharper.

Vander looked confused, but not wary. He reached up and gently closed his hand over yours, grounding your touch with the same strength he'd always had.

"Yeah, little one..." he said quietly, his deep voice like gravel wrapped in honey. "I'm here. Don't worry."

This wasn't a memory. It wasn't some cruel echo of the past dredged up by grief or guilt. It wasn't even like a dream — not hazy or shifting or out of reach. No, this felt real. You could feel the calluses on his palms, the heat of his skin. Smell the smoke and leather on him. Fell his breath.

As if... you had never left. As if you had never lost him.

A shiver ran through you — not from fear, but from the weight of everything this moment defied. Maybe you had died back there, under the rain with that collar around your neck. Maybe your body had finally given out. Maybe this was some version of the afterlife carved from memory and longing.

If it was purgatory, it was a merciful one.

If it was paradise, you never wanted to wake.

With a sharp breath and a choked sob, you threw yourself forward, burying your face into Vander's chest. Your arms wrapped around him tightly, desperately, like he might slip through your fingers if you didn't hold on hard enough.

He didn't hesitate.

He didn't question.

His arms folded around you, enveloping you in that long-lost sense of protection you hadn't felt since everything went to hell. One hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, while the other settled against your back, holding you like you were something fragile he needed to keep from breaking.

"Violet..." you whispered, the name cracking through your throat like glass underfoot.

You couldn't say anything else. The weight of it crushed your chest, and the words tangled behind the sobs building in your throat. You pressed your face harder against Vander's chest as if saying her name aloud would summon the pain you'd been trying to outrun.

"She's... she's..."

"Murdered."

His voice cut you off. But it wasn't gentle this time. It was cold. Flat. That hard tone — the one he'd used when speaking about the world above, when talking about war, about consequences. It was the voice that came before violence.

"Vi is dead."

Panic began to unfurl through your chest like smoke under pressure. The warmth you'd felt moments ago — the safety, the impossible tenderness — it all began to sour. Your instincts screamed as the atmosphere thickened, heavy with something wrong. Deeply wrong.

You struggled in his grasp, tried to pull away, to look at his face — but his arms didn't let go. They didn't tighten, either. He held you there as if nothing had changed, his hand still stroking your hair with a gentleness that now felt... off. Mechanical. As if rehearsed.

"Vander?"

He didn't answer — not really.

"They killed her. They killed my daughter. And now..." He leaned close, too close, voice brushing the shell of your ear. "What are you going to do about it?"

And then the world fractured.

The lights above flickered violently, the old bulbs buzzing like dying fireflies. The jazz track from the jukebox screeched mid-note and began to rewind, the melody warping and bending in reverse like something being undone. Your breath caught in your throat as shadows twisted across the floorboards, crawling like oil.

Then — darkness.

Total.

When the lights came back, everything had changed.

The bar wasn't warm anymore. The old wood was gone, replaced by cold metal, sleek lines, and LEDs that cast everything in a hazy glow. The air smelled sterile, sharp, and artificial. Silco's design. The Last Drop as it became under his rule — ruthless, industrial, his.

And you weren't in Vander's arms anymore.

The body still held you, still warm — but it wasn't broad and sturdy, like a father or protector. It was leaner, sleeker. Coiled power instead of brute strength. The embrace was too close. Too familiar in a different way. You didn't have to look. You already knew.

Silco.

"What did I teach you, dove?" his voice was smooth as silk and laced with something you didn't know how to name. Temptation? Command? Or maybe... the echo of something you'd once believed in "That justice, means balance. That they will never stop until we make them. Until we take from them what they took from us."

He shifted his grip, one hand trailing lightly across your back, comforting in a way that made your stomach twist.

"She had nothing to do with this, she was innocent. And still... they took her."

The music started again — the same jazz as before, unchanged, but now it sounded hollow. As though it were being played in a tomb instead of a bar. The walls seemed to pulse with every beat.

"Tell me." he said, voice sweet as sin. "Don't you think they deserve to pay for that?"

You finally managed to get your limbs to obey.

You shoved at Silco's chest with both hands — weak, shaking — but enough. He stumbled back, more in amusement than imbalance, and you used the space to drag yourself across the cold floor, your breath ragged, hands slipping against the wood beneath you.

He was just standing there, tilting his head slightly like he was watching a wounded animal try to escape its cage. His single glowing eye studied you, bored, disinterested even — as if he'd already seen this part of the story play out a hundred times.

"I thought, that by now, you'd have figured it out." He stepped forward — slow, almost lazy. "But I see, your attachment to the past still clouds your reason."

And then he began to change.

It started as a soft glow — unnatural, black light slithering around his form like smoke.

Silco's frame melted away into Vander — broad-shouldered, kind-eyed, lips pressing into a disappointed frown that hurt more than any blade ever could. Then, without warning, his shape twisted again into Vi, fists clenched, mouth twisted into a snarl. Powder next, and then came him — your old master.

Back to Silco again, as if cycling through ghosts you never asked to see again. His lips curled into a smirk as he kept walking, every footstep heavy with unnatural weight. But now, as you forced yourself to sit upright, chest heaving, you noticed it — a thread that connected each form.

The eyes.

Every form it took — Silco, Vi, Vander, Jinx, even the masked master — every single one had the same gleaming golden eyes. You remember those damn golden eyes. And then, just as the final step closed the space between you, it changed one last time.

The illusion peeled away, you felt the temperature in the room drop. Where he once stood now loomed she.

Tall, terrifyingly graceful. Her form was inky black, ghastly and ethereal, like a shadow wearing skin. A strange, ornate headpiece crowned her, curving backward like something half-regal, half-nightmare. Her face was sharp and cold, but beautiful in the way a predator is beautiful just before it tears you open.

Her eyes — golden eyes — pierced into yours with such intensity it felt like she could see everything you'd ever been. Beneath each eye, a delicate stripe of pale yellow marked her cheekbones like warpaint, like ritual.

"It's good to see you again." her voice was liquid and haunting — the kind of voice that sounded like it didn't belong to just one person. "Although... I've been with you far longer than you realize... little one."

Then it hit you.

Like a flood bursting through a cracked dam, the weight of it all came rushing back.

Vander.

The memory of him—that quite felt real and that always came when you needed it most. Every time he appeared to you, you'd told yourself it was your mind conjuring what you missed. What you needed. That in some twisted and sad way, your mind was already so broken that it had created him to comfort you... to keep you from going crazy and giving up.

But now — now you saw the truth.

It was her. It had always been her.

You clung to that phantom like a lifeline. You begged it to stay. You buried your face in his chest knowing he wasn't real, but choosing to believe — because believing was easier than crumbling.

"You..." you rasped, voice thin and trembling. "Why?" Your palms hit the ground as you forced yourself upright, spine shaking as you looked up at her. "WHY?"

For a moment, her expression didn't change.

Then she stepped closer.

"I was taking care of you." she said softly, almost with a strange affection. "As I told you once, at the ball, I see potential in you. But you haven't reached that potential yet." she said, her tone now clipped, precise. "You've stumbled. Hesitated. Clung to your past like a dying thing clutching warmth. So I guided you. I ensured you stayed on the path destined for you."

"Destined..." you repeated, breathless. "You decided that?"

"I didn't need to." She replied coolly. "Fate has its currents. I simply ensured you didn't stray." She straightened again, a hand lifting to gesture vaguely to the space around you — the illusory old bar, the fragments of a dream you no longer trusted. "Every illusion I gave you, every comfort, was a kindness. Even Vander. You needed someone to believe in, so I gave you him. I couldn't let you get lost all those times, and he was the only person you would listen to."

She shifted again. The illusion unraveled and reformed like smoke weaving into silk. Her frame lengthened. Her posture straightened. The shadows curled inward, reshaping her into something more hauntingly elegant.

Now she stood tall, regal — a striking woman of pale, flawless skin. Shoulder-length black hair framed her face like ink against porcelain. Her gown clung like living fabric — a dark greenish-blue velvet accented in deep reds and gold.

"From the moment in that warehouse when I first came to you as Vander, I have never failed to be there for you whenever you needed him."

She stepped forward, and for a moment you didn't move. Couldn't. Her presence had that effect — like being in the eye of a storm made of words and whispers.

Then she lifted a hand.

Her fingers reached out and cupped your cheek with a surprising gentleness. Her touch was cool, delicate. Almost maternal. You flinched — not from fear, but from the sheer wrongness of the softness. This thing... woman, has been deceiving you all this time, threatening you and was probably evil incarnate. And yet... her gaze had softened.

"You look like her." she said, voice calm — almost mournful. "Your mother."

The words struck something raw and unprepared inside you. You froze. Her thumb brushed lightly beneath your eye, as if wiping away invisible tears.

"A faithful follower. So loyal, she gave us everything. Even her sweet little child."

"What?"

"You were never meant to become their weapon." she said softly, voice silken and impossibly calm. "It was not in your mother's interest. Nor mine."

Her thumb ghosted along your cheekbone, not as a threat — but as a strange gesture of familiarity. Her eyes, pale and sharp as frost, watched your every twitch, searching for understanding.

"We had our own goals when we allowed the Institute to place their hands on you." Her voice never rose. It didn't need to. "But humans are ambitious. Greedy. They couldn't help themselves. They saw what you could become... and they twisted it. Bent it to their desires"

You opened your mouth, but no words came. Only silence. And in that silence, she continued — because of course she already knew your question.

"You were designed for something far greater." she brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "That was your mother's last request of me. Not vengeance. Not legacy. Transcendence. She asked that I make you into something greater than the cycle that took her — something untouched by time or mortality. And I swore I would honor it."

A cold weight settled in your chest. Your mother. You barely remembered her. A blurred face in a half-broken memory. You'd spent so long surviving that you'd stopped asking why did your mother leave you with your father and go away.

"You were not born from the love of two souls, nor from the reckless passion of a fleeting night. No, my dear, you were engineered. A perfect pairing, meticulously planned. Our organization initiated your evolution... but blood magic has its costs. And so we turned to Piltover's technology to finish what sorcery alone could not. And here you are... exactly the way we planned since your birth."

The words settled over you like frost, seeping into your bones. You wanted to move, to strike, to scream — but for a moment, all you could do was exist in that quiet, suffocating truth. Her words clawed at every buried fear you'd ever had. Every question that had gone unanswered. Every moment you had felt like a stranger in your own skin.

But something in you still burned. Something rebelled.

You pushed yourself back, shoving away from her presence like it physically stung. "And why the hell, would I believe a single word out of your lying mouth? You're a deceiver. That's literally what you are."

The title spat from your lips like venom, but she didn't flinch. She only smiled — that same infuriating, ageless smile — serene, patient, like a teacher indulging a petulant child.

"Because deep down, you want to believe me."

You clenched your fists, but she went on, relentless — her voice now almost gentle.

"Because somewhere in that damaged little heart of yours, you need there to be a reason. A purpose behind all the pain. All the abandonment. All the monstrosity you've carried alone." Her eyes glinted with something unreadable. "You want to believe that it wasn't just cruel fate that chose you. That your suffering wasn't some random cosmic accident."

Her gaze pierced through you like a needle sewing old wounds back open.

"Because if I'm lying... then the world really does just hate you. And that, child, is so much harder to live with."

The soft jazz playing in the background faltered — a record stuttering ever so slightly — before seamlessly melting into something else. Something older. Familiar.

A lullaby.

Your mother's voice — delicate, warm, heartbreakingly gentle — laced the air like perfume. Singing that same melody she used to hum when you were too small to understand the meaning of words. The tune wrapped around your bones like a forgotten embrace, making your breath catch in your throat before you even realized why.

"You understand, don't you? What it's like to lose a child."

The words stabbed deeper than any blade.

She stepped beside you with her usual poise, her hands folded neatly, eyes not on you but on the scene unraveling before both of you. "Your mother experienced that same agony. When she left you, when she chose to leave you, it was the first of her many deaths. She knew it had to be done, but it broke her all the same."

As she spoke, the room around you shifted. The bar melted away like ink in water. In its place stood a small, softly lit bedroom. Pale moonlight streamed through gauzy curtains. The floor creaked faintly beneath your feet as if remembering footsteps long gone.

At the center of the room stood a woman.

She was cradling a newborn, her body swaying gently with the rhythm of the lullaby. Her face, turned slightly away, was illuminated by the soft glow of a lantern. The sight of her made your knees weak. The curve of her cheeks, the shape of her mouth... they were yours. Or rather, yours were hers.

The baby in her arms — you, newly born, unmarked by the world — cooed softly, unaware of the future written in scars and chains.

"She loved you..." she said quietly. "Until her final breath."

You couldn't move at first. The illusion — or was it memory? — held you in place, reverent and terrified. This woman... this mother... you had spent your whole life wondering where she had gone. If she had abandoned you. If she'd ever cared. And now here she was, smiling down at you as if you were the most precious thing in the world.

"I tried to bring you to her." She added, her tone almost... mournful. "Those clues you stumbled upon, the scraps of information, the trail you were so sure you found by chance, they weren't accidents. I left them for you. I wanted you to find her, but you didn't arrive in time."

Your throat burned as you slowly stepped forward.

You didn't care if it was a lie. You didn't care if it was an illusion crafted to manipulate you. For just a second, you needed it to be real.

You took a step forward, barely realizing your legs were moving. The closer you got, the heavier your chest felt. As if the gravity of what you were seeing — or remembering, or being shown — was too much for your soul to carry. You stood only a foot away from her now, from the woman who had haunted your dreams without a face for all these years. Her scent lingered in the air, warm like old paper and rose oil.

You didn't remember her touch. You didn't remember her voice.

But gods... you wanted to.

"Was she a good person?"

Your voice was low, almost swallowed by the silence that had settled after the lullaby faded. You weren't even sure why you asked. Maybe it was the ache in your chest. Maybe it was the softness in that ghost's smile — a smile you'd never seen until now.

She didn't answer right away. She took her time, gazing at the memory. 

"There are no good people or bad people, child. Only people with ambition." She turned her head fully then, meeting your gaze. Her eyes were sharp, ancient — the kind that had watched empires rise and burn. "So... what is your ambition? Do you wish to die clinging to someone else's truth? Or will you finally choose to live for yourself?"

You let out a harsh breath, scoffing without humor. "I still don't trust you. Not even a little." you muttered, your eyes narrowing as you turned to face her fully. "Witch."

A grin curled the corners of her lips, slow and sly. Of course she didn't flinch at the insult — she wore it like a crown.

"Do not trust someone who has never lost everything they care about." she said, as if quoting something old — something sacred. "But it doesn't matter if you trust me, I'm not here to be your savior. I'm simply offering you the chance to stop letting others carve your path for you. To stop being the blade someone else wields."

She gestured toward the memory — toward the woman holding you.

"You've worn masks. Played roles. Followed orders. Been a weapon, a tool, a cause. But I think, by now, you already know: none of that was ever truly you."

You looked back to the memory. The lullaby was gone, but the warmth lingered — like embers of a fire that once burned bright. Slowly, as if sensing the shift, the figure lifted her head. Her face turned fully toward you. Her eyes — your eyes — locked with yours.

She smiled.

It was small, soft, but real. Not a performance. Not a construct of ambition or deception. Just a mother's smile. And something in you cracked.

The edges of the room began to dissolve — the wooden floor giving way to shadow, the moonlight bleeding into mist. The illusion was ending. But still, you couldn't move. Couldn't speak. You didn't want to let her go.

Then you felt it.

Cold fingers — not threatening, but gentle — resting against your shoulders. A quiet, grounding presence behind you. She didn't speak at first. She let the moment hang, let the weight of it settle into your skin like frost. And then, her voice — a whisper, barely a breath against your ear:

"Your mother would be so proud of you."

You couldn't say why the hell you chose to believe her.

Maybe it was weakness — the kind that only reveals itself when your walls are already crumbling, when you've got too many wounds bleeding at once to notice a new one. Maybe it was the timing, too perfect not to be deliberate. That witch knew when to strike.

But still... the rage you expected never came.

Not toward her, anyway.

You should've wanted to scream at her, tear her apart, curse her for every inch of manipulation she'd twisted around your life. But you didn't. Maybe because somewhere deep in that shattered part of you... you were tired. Tired of resisting every truth simply because it came from poisoned lips.

People always wanted to make you part of something greater. A weapon, a piece of someone else's plan.

And maybe it was finally time to stop fighting the idea.

You had spent your entire existence shaping yourself around others. Their causes. Their battles. Their pain. Maybe — just maybe — it was time to live on your own terms. And if that meant being something terrifying, something forged from blood and steel and betrayal?

So be it.

You barely had a second to settle into the thought before the world came roaring back — the illusion shattering like glass around your mind.

You were back in the prison. And then — the shot. Your eyes snapped open just in time to see the bullet strike.

Not you.

Her.

Violet.

Her body jerked as the round tore through her — and then she collapsed, hard and fast, her weight hitting the concrete like a dropped weapon. A sickening crack. For a split second, everything went still. Your eyes were fixed on hers, watching the glow in her eyes fade as her life drained from her body without you being able to stop it. Because that was what death was like. Swift, relentless, and inevitable.

The scream that came out of you was not human. It was painful, rotten, angry, and above all broken. That thing inside you woke up. That familiar rage took over you. That thing that had clawed its way out of you once before in the mines. 

Wrath.

The electricity still arced through the collar, still tried to cook you from within, but it no longer mattered. It was background noise now, drowned out by something primal. Your vision shifted — red at the edges, tunneling toward violence. The pain became fuel. The fear became nothing.

Your body twisted violently, bones groaning under the pressure as muscles surged with unnatural strength. The two enforcers gripping your shoulders to keep you kneeling had no time to react.

You rose like a beast unchained.

With a snarl erupting from your throat — low, guttural, inhuman — your hands latched onto the head of the guard to your right. In one swift, savage motion, you slammed his skull sideways, crushing it against the helmet of the one to your left. The sound was a sickening crack of metal against bone — then silence.

Two bodies crumpled instantly.

You didn't stop.

You launched yourself at the group of enforcers ahead, a blur of claws and fury. Each strike was a blur, a brutal, instinctive motion. You tore through them, fists colliding with armored chests, knees breaking ribs, a feral roar on your lips that drowned out even the thunder. Blood hit the air, thick and metallic, and you welcomed it.

You didn't feel the bullets.

Not in the way you were supposed to.

You felt them enter — a punch, a heat, a rip — but there was no pain, not really. Just the pressure. Just the sensation of metal tearing through muscle and lodging itself somewhere deep. Your body staggered once, maybe twice. But then it moved again. Like the wound didn't matter. Like you didn't matter. Because right now, you were gone.

All that remained was wrath.

You moved through the crowd of enforcers like a scythe through tall grass — swift, merciless, untouchable. One tried to fire at close range. You caught his arm, twisted it until the bones snapped beneath your fingers, and slammed the muzzle of his rifle against his throat until he collapsed.

The rain came down in sheets, soaking your bloodied clothes, trying to rinse the gore from your skin — but it couldn't keep up. Blood clung to you like oil, thick and dark, dripping from your chin, your fingertips, painting the ground where you stepped. With every swing, every clawed hand, every cracked rib and shattered skull, you were cleansing something inside yourself. The guilt. The fear. The years of being used, branded, caged.

You tore through a group of them. One you gutted with the broken shaft of a rifle, driving it deep into his abdomen until he crumpled at your feet. Another you tackled to the ground and beat until his helmet cracked, revealing the terrified eyes beneath. The look in them almost made you pause.

Almost.

The sniper tried to be the savior of the nation when he attempted the second shot. It's a shame that you already knew where they was hiding.

Your hand shot out and grabbed the nearest body — a still-twitching enforcer. You yanked him upward and lifted him like a slab of meat. A second sniper round tore through his chest, missing you by inches.

You felt the recoil in the corpse's body. He slumped forward as dead weight, and you used him like a human shield, dragging him forward with one hand while your other fished through his bloodied gear.

A small cylindrical object fell into your palm — metallic, compact. A bomb. Or maybe smoke. Maybe flash. You didn't care. Your blood-slick fingers held it loosely as your eyes scanned the window.

You viewed a silhouette, repositioning for another shot.

You didn't hesitate.

You hurled the device with every ounce of strength you had, straight at the window. It wasn't a clean throw, but it didn't need to be. You watched it arc, bounce once against the ledge — then disappear through the opening.

You turned your head slightly, prepared for a puff of smoke, maybe a flash of light.

Instead, the building exploded.

The shockwave hit you like a slap to the face. A bright, concussive BOOM ripped through the air, sending bits of glass and fire outward in a glorious chaos of destruction. The force knocked you back a step, and for the first time, your fury blinked — just for a second.

Why in the hell was an enforcer carrying a live explosive like that? Not just a smoke canister. Not a flashbang. That was military-grade ordnance — enough to take out a sniper nest and half the floor it was on.

But, you didn't have much time to try to form an explanation for what had just occurred because your main target was running away like the little rat he was. You ran after him.

He was retreating now, boots splashing through puddles, his guards trying to regroup around him. You caught a glimpse of his mask turning over his shoulder — a final glance, maybe to confirm what he already knew.

That he had lost control.

The moment your eyes locked onto him — that pristine white mask, that careful, untouchable posture — nothing else mattered. Not the enforcers still shouting behind you. Not the blood trailing down your limbs. Not even the pain blooming somewhere in your chest. All of it vanished under one singular truth:

He ruined your life. He and that witch, but you would deal with her later, because now you were going to end his.

You leapt, your body moving faster than your thoughts, and collided with him mid-stride. Your hand lashed out, fingers curling into claws, and you ripped across the side of his mask with a feral snarl. You felt it — your nails catching flesh. He staggered back, losing his footing, tumbling into the mud just a few meters away. For the first time, he looked mortal.

You stood over him, chest heaving.

Blood on your fingertips.

And in your palm — a piece of the mask. That pristine, white lie he wore like a crown. Cracked. Torn away. The delicate edge now stained red, fragile as porcelain. You lifted your eyes for him, and there — for the first time — you saw him. His real face. There was no god behind the mask. No monster. Just a man. Older. Smaller. And now, afraid.

But you didn't have time to savor it.

A flash of white cut the air.

Your reflexes screamed, and you threw yourself to the side just as an arrow sliced past your cheek, so close you felt the wind burn.

The world... shifted.

The cold came first. Then the silence.

Not absence-of-sound silence — death silence. Like the very concept of noise had been stolen. The rain still fell, but you couldn't hear it anymore. Everything around you blurred — the world of the prison faded into a muted fog, colors draining, replaced by shades of silver and shadow.

And then came the growl.

You turned, but The wolf was already mid-pounce.

Massive, spectral — not bound by weight or form. Its eyes glowed like dying stars, its mouth a maw of hunger and inevitability. You dove, hitting the ground just as its jaws snapped where your throat had been. The ground cracked beneath its paws.

It landed next to the figure that followed — graceful, slow, patient.

The Lamb.

She raised her bow again, pale mask expressionless, the string drawn taut with quiet promise. There was no anger in her form, no urgency. Only purpose. Only the rhythm of the hunt. She stared at you in perfect stillness almost as if she expected you to accept fate like the first time.

But this time — this wasn't like before, there was no acceptance of the inevitable. Because this time... you had no intention of dying.

You would no longer wish for death. 

Not today... not anymore.

[...]

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Stillwater would have been Silco's fate that day on the bridge—if things had played out differently. If death hadn't already brushed past him, her chains dragging just inches away, then surely imprisonment would have claimed him. Neither had reached him, not that day. But he knew, deep down, that he was not immune to at least one of them. Death was never far behind. Not for men like him.

The rain poured steadily, unrelenting, as Silco and Sevika stepped onto the dock. The air was thick with damp rust and salt, the metallic scent of waterlogged steel clinging to every breath. Thunder rolled overhead, a low growl echoing through the metal containers that lined the platform like silent sentinels. Stillwater loomed around them—not just the prison itself, but the suffocating presence it carried. A place where hope came to drown.

And there, amid the storm and steel, stumbled Marcus.

The sheriff emerged from one of the transport wagons like a man haunted—pale as bone, his eyes wide, darting, unfocused. Rain slicked his hair flat against his forehead, and his hands trembled at his sides. His movements were unsteady, jerky, as if he had just awoken from a nightmare and couldn't quite tell if it had ended.

Then his eyes met Silco's.

In that instant, all color seemed to drain from his face completely. He froze, caught like prey under the eyes of a predator. Whatever composure he had tried to maintain shattered, and for a moment, it looked as though he might run.

But Sevika moved before he could take another step. Her grip was iron, hand clamping down on Marcus's arm with the ease of someone who had done it too many times before. She yanked him back with a grunt, holding him firm, and he flinched.

"Leaving the party early, Marcus?" Silco's voice cut through the storm, quiet but sharp, laced with cold amusement. He stepped forward, lifting the umbrella he held above Marcus's head. The gesture was almost courteous, almost... generous. But Marcus was already soaked through, and both of them knew the umbrella was more symbol than mercy.

"She lost control!" Marcus spat, the words torn from his throat like they were too heavy to hold in any longer.

Only now did Silco truly notice the state of him. It wasn't just the shaking hands or the erratic breathing. It was the blood. Thick, dark smears had soaked into the Enforcer's uniform, too much blood to be his own. The rain had tried its best to wash it away, but the stains clung to the fabric like guilt clings to a coward.

"I barely got out of that massacre alive." Marcus continued, voice rising with panic, brittle and shaking. "I had to lock myself in a godsdamn bathroom while my men... my men... screamed for their lives!"

Silco said nothing. Not immediately. He heard the words, absorbed them—but they didn't shock him. They didn't even surprise him. Because he'd already known. He knew that whatever was in that prison would not be at all pleasing to the eyes and he was already fine with that idea.

He felt Sevika shift beside him, her grip still firm on Marcus's arm. She glanced toward him, just a flicker of her eyes, but it was enough. A silent warning. She's unstable. This is a risk.

And yet, Silco remained still. Composed.

"What a shame." he said quietly, almost as if to himself. Then he looked at Marcus. "You'll take us to her."

The look on Marcus's face was almost comical in another context—eyes wide, jaw slack, the disbelief practically vibrating off of him. But there was nothing funny about it here. Not in this storm. Not under the looming shadow of Stillwater, where death had already claimed more than its share today.

"Did you hear what I just said, Silco?!" Marcus's voice cracked, desperate now, louder. "She lost control! If we step one foot in that prison, she'll kill us first and ask questions later!"

Silco rolled his eyes. Not out of annoyance—but exasperation, perhaps even disappointment.

"She's not some mindless monster."

"You didn't see what I saw!"

"Marcus, I know exactly what I'm dealing with. I've seen the destruction she leaves behind." His voice darkened, just a shade. "So if I'm telling you we're going there... then you will obey. For your own sake."

He didn't shout. He never needed to. His authority came not from volume, but from certainty. From that calm, unwavering conviction that he was always one step ahead—and that resistance was not only pointless, it was dangerous.

To drive the point home, Sevika tightened her grip around Marcus's arm. Not enough to break anything—though she could have—but enough to silence further protest. The sheriff stilled, his body sagging slightly in reluctant surrender. There was no more fight left in him.

Silco watched him for a moment, studying the hollowed eyes, the ghost of arrogance that had long since fled. What had once been a self-righteous Enforcer who strutted through Zaun's lanes like he owned the law... was now this shivering, rain-soaked shadow of a man. Fear had gutted him.

And strangely enough, Silco found that fear reasonable.

Because if she had truly lost control—if whatever had happened behind Stillwater's walls had broken something inside her—then Marcus might be right to tremble. And yet... despite the warnings, despite the carnage... he had to believe she could be reached.

The thought settled heavily in his chest as the transport wagon began to move after the three entered. Rain continued to lash against the metal exterior, rhythmic, relentless. Inside, it was dim—lit only by a flickering bulb that cast long shadows across the cabin.

Silco sat across from Marcus, fingers loosely laced in his lap, one leg crossed over the other. His posture was relaxed, but his mind was far from it. He watched Marcus for a long, silent minute—let the weight of that silence stretch, suffocate.

"What happened, Marcus?"

That founder you've been hunting..." Marcus murmured, eyes hollow. "Somehow, he found her."

He slid down the wall of the transport, legs folding beneath him with the weight of exhaustion—or shame. Maybe both.

"I was told someone important had arrived at the prison... someone who demanded my men cooperate with an ambush to capture a high-profile fugitive." He exhaled shakily, lowering his head into his hands. "When I got there, he was already inside. Surrounded by a dozen of his own men, all dressed like Enforcers. Clean uniforms, badges, weapons. He knew exactly where she was."

Silco's jaw tightened. The pieces were beginning to fall into place, and the picture they formed was uglier than he had expected.

Sevika stepped forward from the edge of the cabin. "Silco. A word?"

He didn't need to ask. Her tone said it all. He gave Marcus one last glance—disdain and curiosity mingling in his expression—then nodded and followed Sevika to the far corner.

"How certain are we if we assume this little 'private army' of his belongs to Finn?" Sevika leaned in slightly. "That thing I told you earlier... remember? About our spy at the Zaun docks?"

Of course he remembered.

Roughly an hour ago, the moment he read that letter, Sevika had delivered the report — he was listening more than actually absorbing the information since at that moment the letter had become his priority.

One of their embedded informants had spotted a covert exchange in the early morning—Finn speaking with a tall mask figure. No faces, no names. Just a single detail that stood out: the masked man wore a smooth white porcelain mask, blank as snow, featureless as death.

"Nothing's certain until we verify the bodies, but all signs point to Finn being far deeper in this than he ever should've dared. If he is involved..." He trailed off, eyes narrowing. "Then we'll deal with that traitorous snake after we finish the real emergency."

The transport slowed to a groaning halt, the wheels grinding against rusted tracks before finally stopping in front of Stillwater Hold.

Sevika stepped out first, her boots splashing in shallow puddles. Marcus followed, though reluctantly, his body tense like a man about to face judgment. He hesitated at the threshold, as if walking back through the gates might somehow summon the ghosts that still screamed behind his eyes.

Silco did not rush.

Instead, he unfolded his black umbrella with the familiar snap and stepped out into the storm like a man entering a theater he already knew the ending to. The rain tapped softly against the umbrella's surface, a rhythmic whisper against the silence that loomed far heavier than it should have.

Stillwater looked normal. On the surface, at least.

The main gate stood wide open. No guards. No protocol. No warnings. Just yawning blackness.

Wrong.

He stepped forward, the gravel crunching underfoot, Sevika already ahead, Marcus lingered close to Silco's shoulder like a shadow that had forgotten how to flee.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the mask of normalcy shattered.

The interior of Stillwater was soaked in silence and the copper stench of blood. Every cell was open—every one. Empty. Not forcibly breached... but opened. Voluntarily, or strategically. Silco couldn't be sure yet. Blood painted the floors in erratic strokes. Footprints—bare, booted, dragging—led deeper into the wings like a trail set by some violent god. And then the bodies.

Enforcers, mostly. Their uniforms torn or stained beyond recognition. Some slumped against the walls, others splayed across the walkways like discarded puppets. Many bore no obvious wounds—no bullet holes, no slashes—just twisted limbs and faces frozen in the kind of fear that didn't come from pain alone, but from knowing their death had meant something to whoever delivered it.

Marcus swallowed thickly beside him, trying and failing not to look at the corpses. His face had gone pale again, his eyes fixating on anything but the carnage. Doors. Lights. Ceiling. Even the damn floor tiles. Anywhere but the blood.

Silco didn't speak. He simply followed the trail, the soft thud of his boots muffled by soaked stone and old suffering. He'd seen death. Caused death. But this? This was something else.

This wasn't an ambush.

It was a purge.

They reached an open courtyard—one of the few areas within Stillwater that allowed sky access. It was here the air shifted entirely.

The stench hit them first. Not just of blood, but rot. The aftermath.

A cluster of Enforcers had been gathered here, more than a dozen. All dead. Their bodies weren't just discarded—they'd been piled. Some had clearly tried to fight. Others had tried to run. None had succeeded.

Silco lifted a gloved hand to cover his nose, not from disgust—he had long since grown past such reactions but from a cold jolt of surprise. And perhaps something closer to unease. The sheer volume of death, the precision of it. She had hunted these men. One by one. Through every hallway, every cell block. As if cleansing the place of anyone who had ever worn a badge.

This... this scene would stay with him. Not for its brutality. But for what it meant.

And then Silco saw her.

Far ahead, barely visible through the gray curtain of rain, a figure sat hunched on the ground. Still. Unmoving. Cradling something—or someone—delicately, as if the world around her didn't exist. The storm didn't touch her. The blood didn't bother her. She was locked in a moment that time itself seemed too afraid to interrupt.

He didn't need to think, didn't need confirmation. It was her.

His little dove.

Silco stepped forward, leaving Marcus and Sevika behind without a word. As he crossed the blood-slick concrete, the umbrella in his hand slipped from his fingers. It landed with a hollow thud against the ground, quickly abandoned as the cold rain began to soak through his coat, his vest, his shirt—down to the skin. But he didn't care.

What was rain, compared to the scene in front of him?

She was cradling a body.

And not just any body.

Even from a distance, he could recognize the pink hair, now matted with blood and grime. Vi. The prodigy of Vander. The last fragment of the old regime. The reckless, loyal fist of everything he had once fought to extinguish.

Dead.

And there she was—his dove—holding Vi's lifeless form in her arms with a silence that screamed louder than any battle cry ever could.

He stopped a few steps away.

Close enough to see her clearly.

Far enough to give her breath.

She didn't even look up. She rocked gently, slow and mechanical, as if trying to lull death itself into reversing what it had done. Her eyes—red, swollen, vacant—stared somewhere beyond him, as if reality had finally lost its meaning. Her clothes hung off her in soaked tatters, shredded and pierced with bullet holes—but her flesh remained unmarred. Untouched.

As if no blade or bullet had dared to stain her skin.

And in that moment... Silco could hardly breathe.

She looked like something divine. Not in the way Piltover painted their saints—sterile and golden, untouched by pain—but in the way only Zaun could birth a goddess. A being baptized in blood, crowned with violence, forged in grief. A celestial terror, broken open by the weight of everything she'd endured—and still, somehow, radiant.

Even this, even this grotesque, profane scene couldn't dim what she is to him.

It should have been a vision of ruin. A spectacle of madness and murder. And yet, all he saw was her. His light in the dark. Drenched in crimson, yes—but more ethereal than ever. Like an angel fallen from heaven not by sin, but by sacrifice.

His voice caught in his throat. There were no words he could offer. Nothing that would fix what had been broken. And maybe... maybe she didn't want it fixed.

He knelt slowly.

Her gaze found his—dull at first, distant. Detached from everything, even the death cradled in her arms. But as the seconds passed, as her eyes focused and adjusted, something shifted. The fog began to clear. Not entirely. But just enough.

Just enough for her to see him.

He held her gaze.

And what he saw there pierced deeper than any blade ever could.

Her expression remained unreadable—carefully constructed indifference, a mask he knew too well. But her eyes... her eyes betrayed her. Sadness bled through them like ink in water. It was the kind of grief that couldn't be screamed or wailed—it simply was, heavy and unbearable, pressing inward like the crushing pressure of the deep.

He couldn't tell if she was crying. The rain ran rivulets down her cheeks, clinging to her jaw, dripping from her chin. But something in the way her eyes shimmered told him it wasn't only the sky that was weeping.

Slowly—carefully—Silco raised a hand.

She didn't flinch.

His gloved fingers hovered just a breath from her skin, pausing, waiting, searching for any sign that he was overstepping. But she didn't pull away. If anything, she seemed to still, her breathing catching like someone startled from a dream.

Then, almost imperceptibly, she leaned in.

That was all the permission he needed.

He touched her cheek with a reverence reserved for relics. His hand slid behind her neck, and gently—wordlessly—he pulled her toward him until their foreheads touched.

It was a gesture more intimate than any embrace. More vulnerable than any kiss.

"They killed my daughter..."

The words slipped out of her as barely more than a whisper, fragile and fractured, yet they struck Silco harder than any blade. It was not the volume that mattered but the truth buried inside it. Daughter. That was what Vi had been to her. Not a simple protégé as he had imagined but a child. Her child.

She cradled the girl’s lifeless body with the reverence of a mother lowering her child into the earth, arms that refused to let go, fingers smoothing hair that no longer answered. It was Silco who moved his fingers to close Vi's eyes since she didn't seem to have the strength to do that.

"They will pay for this, Silco."

He pressed his forehead closer to hers. The rain had grown harsher, sheets of water cascading as though the skies themselves were mourning with her, or perhaps heralding the violence yet to come.

"They will, dove. They will."

Part 30

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Well, I also post this story on ao3 and let’s just say the ao3 curse almost got me. These last few weeks I was so sick I couldn’t even type my own name right, but I had to update this story. So this chapter is the final product of 3 late nights from a writer high on meds (writing action scenes in that state hits… differently). Anyway, the next update will only come when I’m 100% again, but I wanted to write some small extra chapters that kind of deepen the story. One would be a continuation in Stillwater (maybe the fight with Kindred or she hunting down the enforcers), and the other would be from LeBlanc’s perspective, telling a bit about reader’s mother and how she was raised. Tell me if you’d like something like that, or if I should just skip to the next chapter and screw the extra depth. If you want a visual of the reader’s fight with Kindred, you can check out this video (already at the right timestamp). I did say this would be a tough chapter… don’t yell at me!

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[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 28/?)

Violence is the language you both speak — raw, unfiltered, and far too familiar. It’s the only way you’ve ever understood each other… and somehow, it still sounds like love

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 12,2K

Warnings: death, threats, suffocation, blood and violence, graphic violence, canon-typical Silco violence, description of deaths, attempted murder, character near-death, Silco POV

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

Part 27

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

If stress truly shaved years off one’s life, then Silco should have been a corpse by now — buried somewhere with a gravestone etched simply with the word “Enough.” Because enough was precisely what he’d had. Every ounce of patience he might’ve once possessed had long since eroded, especially after the morning's farce of a meeting with the other barons.

Finn had been particularly grating. Loud, self-satisfied, and far too eager to boast about the newest explosives his people had developed — weapons that, in his own arrogant words, could "blow a hole through the spine of Piltover so big even the Council would feel it shake." Silco hadn’t even flinched. Explosions didn't impress him, after all he lived with Jinx.

It wasn’t Finn’s bravado that irked him — that was predictable, almost performative. No, it was the whispers. The way Finn leaned in too close to the others when he thought Silco wasn't looking, voices hushed, expressions grave. As if their little conspiracies weren’t already screaming from their eyes. Silco had learned long ago that a man’s silence said more than his words — and those barons had been screaming.

Though he had suspended the search, they feared he would soon abandon Zaun’s needs once more, chasing after her. The whispers called her a distraction. Finn, ever the idiot, had even joked — right there at the table — that if Silco missed her so dearly, he could “find another little dove for him.”

Silco’s eye had twitched. His finger had flexed ever so slightly against the trigger of the pistol holstered beneath his coat. The only thing that kept Finn’s brain from being splattered across the wall in that moment was the thin thread of restraint — and the silent reminder of a promise made to a certain noxian woman who demanded his cooperation.

Still, the rage had simmered just beneath his skin.

Five months. Five months of pretending to be whole when half of him had walked away.

And yet… he had not given up. He couldn’t give up. Because somewhere in the back of his mind — in the hollow place she had carved out in him — he knew she would come back. She had to. The thought of her never returning was too devastating to entertain. He needed her — not just as a soldier, not just as his sharpest blade or fiercest storm — her.

The barons could scheme and rot and play their little games of influence. Let them whisper. Let them think he was soft, distracted, broken by some woman.

Let them think it.

They’d learn soon enough what happened to men who mistook patience for weakness.

As he and Sevika made their way back to the Last Drop, Silco found his mind drifting to Jinx. Or rather, the fact that she was undoubtedly missing by now.

Not that it alarmed him.

It had become routine — almost absurd, if not for the constant, thudding headache it caused. The whole situation would be comedic if it didn’t scrape his nerves raw.

He and his little dove had become something like estranged parents, passing the girl back and forth like she were a child caught in the middle of a custody war. Every weekend, Jinx would vanish into the wind, reappear in the arms of her "mother," and return days later with her hair more tangled, her mind more frenetic, her eyes flickering with the wild kind of joy Silco could never quite replicate.

The first time he realized what was happening, he’d simply gone to check on Jinx in her lab. The morning had been too quiet, and when silence lingered in Zaun, it usually meant something was burning.

But there was no Jinx. Only scraps. Scraps of paper, splashes of color, half-melted figurines, and —

Drawings.

Dozens of them.

His dove’s face — sketched with a mixture of obsession and something dangerously close to longing — filled every surface. Some images showed her laughing. But what made his throat tighten wasn’t her — it was a pink-haired figure. Her sister. Drawn over and over, always behind bars. A cell.

She knew.

Jinx had known her sister was alive, and yet… she hadn’t turned on him. Not once. No screaming accusations. No betrayal. No relapse into that volatile spiral he feared every day she woke.

Which could only mean one thing: She — his dove — had done something.

“Cancel all my meetings today.” Sevika glanced sideways but didn’t question it. She moved ahead, pulling the door open. “If I hear one more idiot's voice today. I will commit murder.”

She gave him the briefest nod — approval, agreement, or understanding, he didn’t care which.

What he hadn’t expected, however, was to be greeted not by the familiar lull of the bar’s din — but by violence.

A body was sprawled against the wall just inside the entrance. One of his own guards — neck twisted at a grotesque angle, eyes wide and vacant. Dead.

“She’s not here!” a stranger’s voice roared from deeper within.

In an instant, every pair of eyes in the room snapped toward Silco and Sevika. The bar fell into a stunned, pregnant silence. The kind of silence that always came before someone bled.

Silco barely had time to register the tension crackling in the room before all hell erupted. The man on the stairs — the one who had shouted — lifted his weapon again, voice cutting through the stunned hush.

“Change of target!”

His aim turned — directly on Silco. The muzzle of the gun flared, but Sevika moved faster.

Metal met lead.

Her mechanical arm slammed across Silco’s chest just in time, the bullet ricocheting off the thick steel plating with a sharp, echoing ping, zipping off into the dark corner of the bar. Silco didn’t flinch — not because he wasn’t shocked, but because he was used to expecting the worst.

Sevika’s form remained braced in front of him, shielding his body with the full bulk of her prosthetic as smoke and panic surged into the room.

Silco didn’t waste the moment.

Using her broad frame as cover, he drew the revolver from beneath his coat, flicked the safety off in a practiced motion, and aimed — just as the gunman on the stairs tried to duck back behind the railing.

Silco’s finger curled.

One clean shot.

The man’s head snapped back as the bullet hit center mass. He crumpled like a broken puppet, his body tumbling down the stairs with a sickening series of thuds. But Silco didn’t get the luxury of satisfaction.

“Move!” Sevika barked, ramming her shoulder into him, pushing him hard to the left just as another assailant lunged forward from the right — cleaver raised, face snarling.

She met him head-on, slamming her arm into the attacker’s gut with a mechanical roar, tossing him backwards like he weighed nothing. Another rushed at her from the side — and still she held her ground, metal clashing with bone as fists and blades blurred.

Silco, meanwhile, didn’t wait to see how the fight played out.

He ducked behind the nearest pillar, just as a second round whizzed past — so close it tore a line of fire across his upper arm. He hissed under his breath, gripping the wound for a second, blood hot between his fingers, before letting the pain sharpen his focus.

One man remained.

He was taking cover behind the bar, only popping his head up when he thought it was safe. Clearly more trained than the others. Smarter. Dangerous.

Silco leaned back, checked his revolver — and cursed under his breath.

Two bullets left.

He hadn’t reloaded. In all the tension, the meetings, the thoughts of her, he’d forgotten. Stupid. He didn’t have time to regret it. Every second he stayed still was a second closer to being outmaneuvered.

But a muffled grunt of pain snapped Silco’s attention away from the bar counter — a sound rough and low, almost a growl.

Sevika.

He turned his head just enough to see her. She’d been thrown. Her massive body slammed into one of the overturned tables, sending it skidding across the floor in a burst of splinters and broken glass. For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Blood bloomed across the front of her torso — a dark, spreading stain that soaked through cloth and glinted beneath the dim light. Her breathing was heavy, uneven. For a sickening instant, Silco thought she might not get back up.

But then — The shimmer surged.

He saw the chemical light flash through the tubes of her mechanical arm — that violent, unnatural purple, glowing like liquid rage. The veins beneath her skin responded almost instantly, swelling and pulsing with energy no human body was meant to contain. Her jaw clenched. Her back arched.

Then, like some wounded beast, Sevika roared back to life.

She lunged forward, one of the attackers didn’t even have time to scream before she caught him by the throat and — with no hesitation — hurled his entire body across the room.

Right toward Silco.

“Shit.”

He dropped just in time, his knees hitting the stone floor, coat flaring behind him. The man flew past him like a ragdoll, slamming hard into a support beam — but he wasn’t unconscious yet, groaning, twitching, fumbling for his blade even as his body tried to remember which way was up.

Silco didn’t give him the chance.

Still crouched low, he raised his revolver — one smooth, fluid motion — and fired. The bullet struck clean through the man’s throat. A wet sputter followed, and then silence. Another one down. Another mess on the floor.

One bullet left.

Another gunshot split the air followed instantly by a second pained grunt from Sevika.

Silco’s eyes flicked in her direction. She staggered, shoulder twisted from the impact, blood trailing down her side, but she stayed upright.

And that — that moment of distraction — was the mistake the man behind the bar made. He popped his head out again, lining up another shot, aiming squarely at Sevika’s exposed flank.

Silco didn't hesitate.

He raised his revolver, exhaled through his nose, and squeezed the trigger.

The shot rang out, slamming not into the target — but just above him, where it struck one of the old neon fixtures that buzzed over the bar. The bulb shattered in a white-hot flare, casting a brief flash of light and sparks across the room.

Just a second. That’s all it lasted. But it was enough.

Sevika moved in that same blinding instant. The man she was grappling with barely had time to register her shift in focus before she grunted, seized him by the waist, and hurled his body across the bar like a sack of refuse.

The timing was flawless.

Her victim’s body collided with the shooter behind the counter, both of them crashing to the floor in a tangled, motionless heap. Neither moved.

Smoke and broken glass floated in the air like dust. Silence began to bleed into the room again, creeping around the edges of the carnage. Sevika turned her head, breathing heavily, blood dripping from her temple. She gave Silco a subtle nod — a signal.

Clear.

He stepped cautiously over the shattered floor, glass crunching beneath his boots. “Only one needs to stay alive.”

Sevika understood immediately. No questions.

She turned, grabbing the one she'd been battering like a drum for the last minute and hauled him upright with her mechanical arm. He was groaning, half-lucid, face swollen beyond recognition. Then she drew her fist back — Shimmer still coursing like fire beneath her skin — and punched.

The sound was wet. Not the crack of bone — not just that. It was deeper, thicker. Something caved in. The man’s legs gave out before his brain even registered it, crumpling to the floor in a heap.

But the moment she moves to catch the other, the bastard had one last breath of defiance in him. The man lunged — not for Sevika, not for an escape, but for Silco.

He didn’t see it coming. One second, the man was slumped in a semi-conscious heap, wheezing blood through broken teeth. The next — he was a blur of desperation and vengeance, throwing himself bodily across the distance between them like a dying animal refusing to die alone.

The man collided with him, snarling something incoherent — and then Silco felt it.

The blade.

A sharp pressure — not even a cut, not at first — and then it was in him. Buried deep, up to the hilt.

There was no time to react. No cry, no defense, no counterstrike.

Then Sevika was there. She ripped the attacker off Silco’s body with the kind of force only shimmer could offer — and hurled him clear across the room. His body hit the far wall with a gut-wrenching crack, slid down, and didn’t move again. Not even to groan.

But Silco didn’t look. He looked down instead. At the hilt protruding from his abdomen. Still warm. Still wet. His hand gripped the knife and, with practiced steadiness, he pulled it free. The blood followed. Thick. Dark. Hot.

But there was something wrong.

No lightning flash of agony. No fire burning through muscle and nerve like he’d known from every other wound he’d survived in this godforsaken city.

Nothing.

No pain.

Just… emptiness.

That’s what terrified him.

His knees buckled. He dropped like a discarded marionette, collapsing to the floor with no grace, no resistance — like his body had simply decided to stop responding. His revolver clattered uselessly against the floor. His vision dimmed at the edges, the sound of the room fading under a strange, pressurized silence. He heard Sevika’s voice — distant, frantic.

“SILCO!”

But his mouth didn’t move. His hands didn’t rise.

He felt her rough grip press down on his stomach, trying to stem the bleeding. He knew that tone. Sevika rarely panicked. But this time, she did. And still, he couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t move.

His eye, wide and unblinking, stared up at Sevika, and for the first time in years real fear bloomed in his chest. Not of death. He had made peace with death long ago. But of helplessness. 

And then... darkness.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

"I just came from Singed's lab, I was evacuated when things started getting... out of hand. I didn't know where Powder was, and I feared she might've been caught in the chaos. I thought—" Viktor paused, swallowing hard. "I thought your daughter might've been in the bar when it happened."

Your stomach dropped like a stone into freezing water.

"You said attack?" you holding up a hand like it would somehow stop the spinning in your head. "Who was the target?"

"I can't imagine anyone else but Silco."

There was a moment—half a second—where something inside you wanted to feel relief. Hope, maybe. The kind of bitter satisfaction that should've come with the idea of Silco finally being removed from the board. But it never came. Instead, your chest tightened, and all you could feel was dread, clawing at your insides like it had teeth.

You felt fear. 

Raw, invasive, and clinging to your ribs like barbed wire. You clenched your fists at your sides. "Is he...?"

"I don't know." Viktor answered quickly. "I heard there were casualties, some injured, some dead. But I don't know which category Silco falls into."

You inhaled shakily, trying to control the tightness in your throat. A thousand memories slammed into you all at once—his voice, his eyes, his touch. The nights you spent tangled in whispered lies and honest mistakes. The way he made you feel safe even when the entire world said you shouldn't. And the way it all shattered.

You didn't deny the idea of ​​wanting to kill him, but you couldn't stand the idea of ​​seeing him dead.

You swallowed hard. Something deep in your gut twisted tighter—painfully now, like being punched in the stomach. That feeling you got when you already knew something terrible was happening, and you were just waiting for it to be confirmed.

"Thanks for telling me."

"It was nothing." Viktor replied gently. Then, after a pause, he added, "Actually... one more thing."

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small glass vial. The liquid inside was murky, the color of muddy water after a storm—thick, brownish, and strange, like it wasn't sure if it wanted to be a fluid at all. He placed it in your palm, carefully.

"The first prototype of the cure." his voice was carrying the heavy burden of what this meant. "Give it to Violet. We need to see if there's... any kind of reaction. Anything at all."

You stared at the vial for a moment, your mind racing too fast to form a coherent thought. Then you nodded, sharp and fast, already turning on your heel before he could say anything else. You didn't say goodbye. You didn't ask more questions. You just moved—fast.

Your boots echoed across the stone floor as you sprinted down the corridor, past the other Enforcers and guards who turned to look but said nothing. Most of them gave you wary, suspicious glances—no one trusted someone running like that unless something was on fire or bleeding. But no one stopped you either.

By the time you reached solitary, you could already hear the echo of raised voices bouncing off the walls.

"—I'm just saying, you're a fucking coward hiding behind a badge! At least have the guts to say what you mean, asshole!"

Vi. Of course. Her voice was unmistakable—sharp, furious, laced with venom and barely-contained rage. She was standing at the edge of her cell, fists clenched around the bars, glaring daggers at the poor guard standing just outside. He looked like he wanted to respond with something equally aggressive, but the moment he saw you charging down the corridor like a storm, he hesitated.

"I got it from here." you said quickly, stepping between them. "You can go."

The guard didn't budge.

"She just... she threatened to shove a wrench down my throat."

"I believe it." you pressing your palm against his chest and giving him a gentle shove. "Still. I've got it. Go."

The guard hesitated, clearly unwilling to let the argument drop. His jaw clenched, eyes flicking between you and Vi like he was still calculating whether he could win a fight with a teenage girl.

"Now."

He grunted and finally backed off, muttering something under his breath as he stalked down the hall.

You didn't wait. You shoved open the cell door and nearly tripped as you stumbled inside, the breath still not fully back in your lungs. Powder had just crawled out from under the bed, her hair a mess, her eyes wide with confusion and concern. Vi turned to say something—probably a snarky comment—but you were already reaching into your pocket.

Without a word, you pressed the vial into her hand.

"Don't drink it all." you said, and even you were surprised by how hoarse your voice sounded.

Vi blinked, her fingers curling around the glass instinctively. "What... is this?"

"What I'm trying to make for you... A cure." There was still distrust in Vi's eyes—because there always was—but also that flicker of fear she could never quite hide from you. "Please... trust me."

The silence between you hung heavy for a second longer than you expected. But then, to your surprise, Powder reached out without a word and gently squeezed Vi's hand. The gesture was soft, barely more than a twitch, but it was enough. Encouragement. Belief. And Vi, despite every stubborn, furious bone in her body, finally brought the vial to her lips.

She drank.

Her nose wrinkled immediately, and she coughed.

"Ugh!" she holding the half-empty vial back out to you. "What kind of cure tastes like that? It's like drinking saltwater from a boot."

"If it works, you'd better get used to it." You took the vial back, slipping it carefully into your coat. Soon after, you stepped back into the hall, pulling the cell door shut with a heavy clang of iron. The lock clicked, solid and final. "I have to see someone. Take care of your sister. She's staying the night with you."

Powder's head shot up immediately. "What? Silco will start looking for me if I don't come back!"

You turned just slightly, just enough to meet her eyes and offer the smallest smile you could manage. "I'll explain later, my little one. Just stay quiet and don't let others know you're here. I'll be back as soon as I can."

And then you were gone—moving fast again, boots thundering down the corridor like a warning bell. You could feel time slipping out of your hands, and there was no room left for caution. The moment Viktor handed you that vial, you knew things would get ugly.

You put the uniform mask on your face.

The guards in the next hallway barely had time to speak before you struck. One reached for his communicator—he didn't even see your fist coming. He dropped like a ragdoll. The second tried to draw his baton, but you were faster, jamming your elbow into his throat before he could shout. He crumpled to the ground gasping.

You'd like to believe that everything he did—the lies, the manipulation, the way he used you like another pawn on his ever-growing chessboard—was enough to kill whatever was left of the part of you that cared. That the pain had hardened you. That you'd moved on. But the truth was sharp and unrelenting and crawling under your skin.

You were on your way to him.

To Silco.

It felt like a betrayal just to want to know. You should've stayed away, left it alone. After everything he put you through, you should've been glad—ecstatic, even—if someone had finally done what you couldn't and ended him. It should've felt like justice. Like closure.

But instead, it felt like a hole had opened inside you, a hollow pit that only deepened. Because if Silco was really dead, that piece of you—no matter how bitter, no matter how ashamed—would die with him. And this time you would be sure.

[...]

Zaun hadn't changed in the five months you'd been gone. It still clung to that same thick, choking fog that smelled like oil and rust, the same narrow alleys packed with shadows and flickering neon signs that barely pierced through the smog. The city breathed in its own filth and exhaled secrets, just like it always had. And yet, something about being back felt... off. Not unfamiliar, exactly—more like returning to a dream where you knew every corner, but everything was just slightly wrong.

You wondered how—how—neither Silco, nor the Institute, nor that unnamed Noxus organization had found you during your absence. It wasn't like you'd covered your tracks that well. A part of you wanted to believe you'd simply slipped through the cracks, that maybe, just maybe, you'd been lucky enough to vanish beneath their radar. But you knew better.

That was the kind of thinking that got people killed in Zaun. Luck didn't exist down here. If they hadn't found you, it was because someone—or something—wanted it that way. And whatever reason they had, you weren't sure you wanted to find out.

Still, whatever attack had shaken this part of the city had clearly passed. The streets were alive again with people—cautious, jittery, but moving. You could feel the pulse of the place returning. But there were whispers. People glanced toward the bar at the end of the block, then looked away just as fast.

The lights were out, the sign dark. Closed. Unusual, for a place that never seemed to sleep. Two bruisers stood out front, thick-necked and slow-eyed, looking bored more than alert. That told you everything you needed to know: whatever had happened in there, it was bad enough that they wanted to keep the wrong eyes out... but maybe not bad enough to expect a return visitor.

This time, you didn't rely on speed or brute force to get inside. You didn't knock anyone out or make a show of your presence. No, this time you chose silence. Stealth. You waited, hidden behind a collapsed stairwell for the right moment—the subtle shift in the guards' positions, the brief lull when one stepped away to smoke. 

They weren't exactly on high alert, which, considering what had gone down here, felt sloppy to you. Either they were overly confident or someone had told them not to worry too much. 

The back door was locked, but not well. You jimmied it open with a firm twist, slipping inside before the creak of hinges could carry too far. The hallway inside was pitch dark and reeked of stale beer, blood, and gunpowder. You could still see the remnants of chaos—broken furniture pushed hastily against the walls, scorch marks on the floor. Whatever had gone down in here wasn't just a bar fight. It had been precise. Tactical.

You did your best to stay unseen. Hugged the walls. Listened for movement. Made each step deliberate, careful. But it wasn't enough. No matter how precise you were, someone always heard something. Maybe it was the click of your boot against a loose floorboard, maybe it was instinct—but two men turned a corner and spotted you before you could vanish again.

One charged you. You ducked beneath his swing and drove your elbow into his gut, then brought your knee up hard into his jaw. The second hesitated a moment too long. You spun, using the momentum to slam him against the wall, with enough force to knock him out. Both went down before either could yell. A flash of movement, two thuds. Then silence again.

You dragged them behind a stack of crates and empty barrels, and he stole the gun that one of them was carrying.

After that, the path to the office was uneventful. You crept through the bar like a ghost, one hand tightening around the grip of the gun you'd taken. You didn't know if it even had a full magazine, but it was better than nothing. You were mid-motion, disengaging the safety, when the door to Silco's office swung open.

And there she was.

Sevika.

One second you two were just staring at each other in complete silence, and the next you were already moving.

Her mechanical arm came at you like a blur, and before you could fully raise the pistol, her fingers were around your throat, cold steel crushing against your windpipe. You stumbled back, half-dragged into the room by the sheer force of her grip. But your own hand didn't falter—you pressed the muzzle of the gun right against her temple, your finger tightening on the trigger.

Sevika's grip tightened just enough to start to suffocate. But you didn't lower the gun. Not even a fraction. The two of you were locked there, suspended in a violent stillness that could collapse into chaos at any second. Her eyes, sharp and unreadable, narrowed slightly as she spoke—her voice low, rough, and laced with annoyance.

"How the fuck did you get in here?"

You managed a smirk, despite the pressure on your throat. 

"You should be asking yourself why Silco's paying such incompetent bastards to guard his bar." You raised an eyebrow slightly. "Two of them are unconscious by the back hallway, by the way. You might want to dock their pay, if they ever wake up."

She let out a dry, humorless huff.

"You've got some fucking nerve." her tone was halfway between amusement and fury. "Just waltzing in here like it's nothing when we've been hunting your ass for months."

You rolled your eyes, long and slow, like her words were more of an inconvenience than a threat.

"Are we gonna fight or talk?"

For a beat, she didn't move.

Then, finally—finally—her grip loosened. The pressure around your neck released, and you staggered back a step, sucking in a sharp breath like it was the first real one you'd had in hours. Sevika didn't move far—just enough to give you breathing room, but not enough to trust you. Her posture remained defensive, tense, the way a wolf might size up another predator.

"So what is this?" she asked, as he walked over to Silco's desk. "You come back to finish the job? Put a bullet in Silco's head after all this time?"

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, you reached up, fingers brushing your throat where the imprint of her mechanical grip still throbbed like a brand. You tilted your head, cocked an eyebrow, and finally met her question with one of your own.

"If I came to kill someone, do you really think you'd be the one to stop me?"

There was no pride in your voice. No arrogance. Just truth. And Sevika knew it. The way her jaw flexed told you as much—she wasn't stupid.

You let the weight of the moment hang between you. Slowly, your gaze drifted past her, around the office. Everything was exactly where it had been. The half-empty bottle of whiskey on the desk, the ashtray full of ashes and a half-smoked cigar, the stack of reports in Silco's neat, obsessive handwriting... untouched.

Somehow, that hit harder than you expected.

A wave of something swelled in your chest—too familiar, too deep. It wasn't sadness exactly. It was memory. The kind that snuck up on you in the quiet, that wrapped itself around your ribs and squeezed. You hadn't realized how much of this place had been burned into you, until you were standing in the middle of it again.

"What the hell happened here?"

Sevika exhaled heavily, her shoulders lowering just a fraction as the hostility gave way to something more tired. She leaned against the edge of the desk, metal fingers flexing absently. Her eyes lost a bit of that hard glint for the first time since you'd walked in.

"An ambush." she said finally, tone clipped but not angry—just tired. "We were coming back from a meeting, soon as we walked into the bar... they were already waiting."

You nodded slowly, not interrupting. Just letting her speak.

"Silco and I took out them. Amateurs... probably hired muscle. But one of them got close." Her expression darkened, jaw tightening. "Slipped a blade into Silco's stomach before I could stop him."

"Bad?"

"Bad enough." She shrugged, but there was weight behind it. "The blade had something on it, maybe poison or some hallucinogen... Singed is investigating."

"How is he?"

Sevika let out a slow breath, gaze flicking toward the secret door, as if she could see through the walls to where he might be resting.

"He's holding up. You know him. Bastard's too stubborn to die." You let out a faint, dry laugh, almost involuntarily. "He survived your knife..." Sevika added, her eyes returning to yours with something between amusement and challenge, "So of course he'd survive this one, even if the current situation is not the most favorable."

You tilted your head slightly, studying her.

"You're acting awfully calm, considering you just caught me here. Shouldn't you be, I don't know, sounding every damn alarm in Zaun? Calling for backup? Locking me in a cage or something?"

Sevika rolled her eyes like you were the one being dramatic.

"Yeah, well, Silco gave the order to call off the search. Few months back. Said he had everything under control."

You blinked. That stopped you cold for a moment.

"He what?"

Sevika grunted, clearly annoyed—not at you, but at the situation. At him.

"Didn't bother telling me, of course." she added. "Kept it to himself. I find out a week later when no one's responding to the fucking notices. When I finally ask him about it, he just tells me to drop it. Like we hadn't been spending weeks digging through every tunnel in this city looking for you."

Her tone wasn't angry so much as it was exasperated—like she'd already had this argument with herself a dozen times and never gotten a satisfying answer.

"I'll see him... make sure no one interrupts us."

You hear it — a deep, guttural noise of irritation, the telltale scoff that only Sevika can pull off. That sound alone paints the picture in your mind without you having to look at her directly: the narrowing of her eyes, the way her mouth twists into a grimace of pure disdain. She's probably grinding her teeth, barely holding back the urge to say what she really thinks of you.

"And since when do I take orders from you, you arrogant little brat?"

"Since you'd rather keep the one arm you've got left."

You don't say another word as you moved toward the hidden door, your gaze fixed straight ahead. You don't even glance back at Sevika, though you can feel the weight of her eyes burning into your back like a warning — sharp, exasperated, tired of this game.

Without hesitation, you pull the door open — the sound of the old mechanism grinding slightly as it gives way — and step inside. The heavy wood swings shut behind you with a dull thunk, sealing you off from Sevika, from the hallway, from the weight of Piltover politics and Zaun's underbelly. But the silence that greets you isn't comforting. It's oppressive. And familiar.

The moment you entered, it hits you — the smell first. A mix of old smoke, aged whiskey, and something sterile beneath it all, like someone tried to scrub the ghosts away but only managed to smear them around. The room itself hasn't changed much, although there is an extra door in the corner. 

Dim lighting spills from the ornate lamp on the desk, casting long shadows across the walls. Dark wooden shelves still line the far end, filled with books you doubt Silco ever read but insisted on keeping. There's a weight in the air that hasn't lifted — not with time, not with absence.

It feels like stepping into a memory you tried to bury alive.

Your eyes move instinctively to the bed, to him. Silco.

He's dressed in his usual clothes, but it's impossible not to notice the slight rise under his shirt, right over his stomach— a bandage, clean but snug, pressed to the spot where the blade sank in. Your eyes linger there for just a second too long.

Pale. Thinner than you remember. There's something hollow carved into the lines of his face now, something that wasn't there before. The dark circles under his eyes aren't just fatigue — they're exhaustion on a soul-deep level, like sleep hasn't come easy in a long time, if at all. You don't even have to ask to know that the wound isn't the only thing he's been recovering from.

He looks fragile, and the sight hits you like a slap across the face. You always pictured him as untouchable — as the arrogant, calculating bastard who always had the next five steps planned, the one who bent the world to his will through sheer force of belief. But now? Now he looks human. Painfully human.

You realize, suddenly, that you're gripping the handle of your revolver too tightly — your knuckles gone white, your palm damp with sweat. You hadn't even noticed. It's muscle memory at this point, the way your body braces around him, the way your fingers find steel when your heart starts slipping out of your control.

And still, you walk forward.

You stop beside his bed, standing over him like someone might over a coffin — rigid, tense, unsure if you're here to mourn or to spit on the grave. You half expect the scent of death to rise from his skin. But all you can smell is old blood, alcohol, and the faintest trace of tobacco.

You wait for something — a surge of triumph, vindication, even a flicker of satisfaction. But none of it comes. There's no rush, no twisted joy, no righteous fire in your chest. Just... emptiness.

All those nights you spent imagining this moment — not with rage or desperation, but with cold clarity. You imagined the final confrontation, stripped of all theatrics. Just the two of you, face to face, as equals and enemies. You pictured the silence after the last word was spoken, the calm after the storm. You always thought it would bring closure.

But this?

This isn't closure.

This is a man unraveling in front of you. This is a man who looks like he's barely held together by will alone, like he's lost pieces of himself that he'll never get back. And it shouldn't matter. You shouldn't care. But you do.

Gods, you do.

Because looking at him now, in this fragile, pathetic state — you feel the truth crack wide open inside you. You still love him. It's a cruel, quiet kind of pain. The kind that sinks in slow and never really leaves.

You reach for him, your fingers moving almost of their own accord, a muscle memory too deeply ingrained to unlearn. The tips of your fingers brush over the scarred side of his face, slowly, softly — a gesture so achingly familiar it feels like slipping into a version of yourself you thought had long since died.

Carefully , you sit beside him on the edge of the bed as putting the revolver aside. The silence stretches between you, heavy with things unsaid — memories, regrets, rage, tenderness. Your body leans toward him in instinctual surrender, your hair falling around your face in a curtain that hides you from the world.

You've done this before. Sat beside him like this. Bent toward him like this. Loved him like this — even when it hurt, even when it shouldn't have been love at all.

You want to hate him. You should hate him. There are a thousand reasons carved into your heart like tally marks on a prison wall. It would be so easy to claim that what you're about to do is for Powder. To say that you're saving her from mourning her father, even if that father was a monster.

But you stopped lying to yourself a long time ago.

You're doing this for you. Because even after everything, you are still that foolish girl who believes in salvaging the wreckage, who reaches out even when her hands come back bloodied. You love too much, even when it ruins you.

Especially when it ruins you.

You retrieve the small glass vial from your pocket — the prototype. You unscrew the cap, your breath catching slightly as you shift closer to him, and gently lift his chin. His head tilts back under your hand, lips parting just enough for you to pour the contents between them. The liquid disappears down his throat, leaving behind nothing but silence.

You stay there a moment longer, your hand cradling his face, your thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. There's no reaction. No flicker of movement behind his eye. No cough. No gasp. Just the steady stillness of a man who has always known how to wait in silence — whether for death or something else.

"You don't get to die, you bastard. You took that right from me. So it's only fair I take it from you."

You linger there, staring down at him, heart tight in your chest, unsure if you're mourning, pleading, or simply waiting for the past to exhale.

"If you really die, I will kill you."

You let out a long, quiet sigh — not just from exhaustion, but from the overwhelming pressure of everything you've carried to this moment. The kind of sigh that digs into your ribs, like something inside you is finally loosening its grip. It feels done. Finished. There's nothing left to do now but stand up, walk away, and try to forget you were ever foolish enough to come back here. 

Slowly, you begin to shift your weight, your body rising from the mattress. And then you feel it.

Fingers closing around your wrist.

The grip is firm, steady, not frantic or weak like you might expect from someone pulled back from the brink. Just... certain. And it pins you in place as effectively as a command ever did. Your gaze drops to where his hand wraps around your skin. There's no tremble. No hesitation. Just him.

You follow the line of his arm up, slowly, until your eyes meet his.

Silco is looking at you. Really looking at you. And his expression is exactly what you remember — the shadowed intensity, the depth of calculation in every flicker of that mismatched gaze. It sends a ripple through your chest, something raw and half-alive, but it's the change in his eyes that cuts deepest.

You see it — the moment of realization. That flicker of confusion bleeding into clarity, like fog lifting after years of darkness. His brow furrows slightly, lips parting just enough for breath, not words. Then his expression softens. Subtly. Painfully.

He doesn't speak. Not at first. And the silence burns hotter than anything else.

"Say something." you mutter, your voice tighter than you meant it to be. "Anything, Silco. I didn't drag myself back into this hellhole just to be stared at like some goddamn ghost."

Still, he doesn't speak.

Irritation rises in you — masking panic, masking fear. "I should've let you rot." you bite, trying to wrench your wrist free even though the grip holding you is already loosening. "I should've left you to decay in this bed like the relic you are. I don't even know why I came back here."

You're unraveling, and you know it. The emotion in your voice gives you away. You can't keep the venom steady, not with the way he's looking at you — like you're real. Like you're his. Like you never stopped being.

"You're as beautiful as the day I lost you."

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your breath halts in your lungs.

It's not what he says. It's how he says it — not smooth, not manipulative, not calculated like everything else that ever passed his lips. It's honest. Raw. And it shatters you. Because that version of him — the one capable of softness — was always the most dangerous. The one you could never quite kill inside you.

The silence that follows is deafening.

You pull your wrist from his grasp — too hard, too fast — like his touch burned you down to the bone. The motion is sharp, almost violent, and you stagger half a step back as if distance will undo the past. Your hand flies instinctively to your wrist, clutching it as if to smother the sting that still lingers there, the ghost of his fingers pressed into your skin.

And for a moment, you just stare at him. The look in your eyes is venomous, wild, unguarded — a storm barely contained behind your rage. But your lips don't move. You don't speak. The words stay trapped behind clenched teeth and a clenched jaw, your chest rising and falling as you try to wrestle your composure back into place.

Silco, meanwhile, moves slowly. He shifts his weight, pushing himself up into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, wincing slightly as his muscles protest — half-dead still, or maybe just stubborn enough to ignore death altogether. One hand rises to his stomach, fingers brushing over the remnants of the wound like he's checking if reality matches memory. He doesn't look surprised to still be breathing.

Then his eyes lift back to you, sharp and unreadable. That familiar glint flickers in his expression again.

"I imagine you came here to finally kill me." he says, voice hoarse but steady, carrying just enough edge to dig beneath your skin. His eyes drop, and he nods faintly to the side — to the gun sitting on the bed next to him.

Without hesitation, he reaches for it. You tense — your hand twitching slightly at your side — but you don't stop him.

Silco picks it up with the same casual precision he always had. He flips open the chamber, checks the bullets with practiced ease, then snaps it shut with a quiet click. When he looks up again, the weight of the revolver rests in his palm, and his expression is maddeningly calm.

"The last time, you shot me in the head." He holds the gun out toward you, offering it. "Will you aim for my heart this time?"

Your eyes narrow, the anger flashing bright again as you bite back a bitter scoff. "You're awfully confident for a man who almost died."

He smirks, that slow, infuriating curve of his mouth that always made you want to slap him or kiss him — sometimes both. "Then go on, kill me. You've already tried once."

You let out a dry, humorless laugh, the kind that scrapes against your throat on its way out. "Please..." your tone was laced with irony as you gesture vaguely to the room — to him. "I don't need to dirty my hands. Someone clearly beat me to it."

Silco huffs, a short, low exhale through his nose — not quite amusement, not quite disbelief. He shifts slightly on the bed, the gun lowering to rest against his thigh, though his grip on it remains firm. 

"So that's it, then? That's why you came. To confirm the rumors? To see if the ambush was enough to finally finish the job?"

You tilt your head, refusing to answer his question directly. Instead, you fold your arms, keeping your distance, your tone colder now. "Do you even know who wants you dead, Silco? Or are you just used to having too many enemies to bother keeping count?"

His expression doesn't change, but the quiet stretches for a beat too long. He looks down at the revolver in his hands, turning it in his fingers with a slow, deliberate calm — like it's suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room. You can tell he's thinking, calculating, but his voice is casual when it finally returns.

"There's only one fool desperate enough to strike at something of mine again... Finn." Silco's lip curls faintly, not quite a snarl, but close. "Even if he hired mercenaries to muddy the trail, he'd still be the only suspect. A rat can change its face, but it still smells the same."

You narrow your eyes, caught on his phrasing. 'Again'. The word echoes in your head, twisting something inside your chest. "What do you mean, again?"

Silco glances up at you from under his lashes, a shadow of knowing behind that shimmer-scarred eye. "Who do you think the men you killed in the mines months ago belonged to?"

The words hit like a slap. You blink, startled — remembering it now. That day. The chaos. You'd assumed, back then, they were sent by Silco. Of course you had. It made sense. He had reasons. Silco still has the audacity to look offended when he realizes where his line of reasoning is going.

"You really believed I would send armed men after you? Knowing full well it'd be a waste of lives and bullets?"

"And can you blame me?" You hadn't meant to yell — not at first — but the storm inside you had been building too long to contain. "You used me, Silco. You turned me into a template for your fucking army! You put shimmer inside me! Do you even remember that? Or did you convince yourself it was mercy?"

Your voice is shaking, but you press forward, refusing to let emotion swallow your rage.

"You did that to me! You saw me bleeding out and thought, 'ah, yes, perfect opportunity to weaponize the one person who was able to love me as the monster she were.'"

"I did it to save you!"

"YOU SHOULD'VE LET ME DIE!"

That word — die — lands like an anchor in the middle of the room, heavy and absolute. For a moment, it hangs there, untouched, like neither of you wants to acknowledge what it really means. But then he moves.

Silco surged to his feet with a speed and force that defied every shred of logic. He had taken a stab wound contaminated with something only God knew what, and yet he moved as if nothing had happened.

And even though your mind knows he can't hurt you, not really, your body flinches anyway. You take an instinctive step back, one hand curling into a fist at your side, heart hammering wildly. It remembered. It remembered the way his presence could suffocate a room.

"Don't ever say that again." the words weren't loud, but they rang in the room like a gunshot. His tone was not a plea. It was a command — the voice of a man who still thought he had authority over your life, your death, and everything in between. "I would never let you die. Not then. Not now. Not ever."

"Oh, of course you wouldn't," you scoffed, venom dripping from every word. "You need me alive, don't you? Gotta keep your precious little experiments going, your twisted, shining soldiers." You laughed, bitter and cold. "That's all anything ever is to you, isn't it? A means to an end."

You didn't expect the silence that followed to cut quite so deep. Silco's expression shifted subtly, but it was enough—his jaw tensed, brow furrowed, and his one good eye narrowed with something almost... wounded. But it wasn't softness. No, it was far from that. It was disgust—sharp, disappointed, and so tangible that it clawed at your chest like guilt.

"Do you even hear yourself?" his voice dropping to that low, gravelled timbre you knew too well. "If you were really just a means to an end, I would've done far worse than what the Institute did to you."

He was stepping forward — that slow, predatory grace he always had, like he never needed to raise his voice or rush to dominate a room. He just was the threat. Towering above you now, his shadow cast long over your figure, his voice dropped even lower, thick with something unnameable.

"Everything I did was for—

"Don't you dare finish that sentence!" you raised a finger like a weapon between you. "Because there are only two ways that ends and I don't want to hear either. 'For me'? Or 'for love'? And we both know you're not capable of the second."

That struck something in him. You saw the flicker behind his eye, but instead of exploding like a man enraged, he moved with eerie calm. Calculated. Dangerous. His hands reached your face, fingers cold at first against your skin, but steady. You hated how familiar it felt. How gentle he could be when it suited him. And worst of all — how much your body remembered that gentleness, even if your heart rejected it.

"I'm incapable?" 

He repeated, voice barely more than a whisper now, as he tilted your face up toward him. You refused to look into his eyes, but he made it impossible not to. His eyes were like flames, and you were the damned moth drawn to the light knowing you're going to burn to death.

"I would burn the world for you." he said, not as a plea, but as a statement of fact—undeniable and terrifying in its certainty. "And you know that."

And gods help you, you did know. The worst part was, in the marrow of your bones, you knew he wasn't lying.

"I hate you! I hate you more than anything, Silco. More than the Institute, more than Piltover, more than every filthy lie you ever told me."

For a split second, silence.

And then—he smiled.

Not mockingly. Not with cruelty. But with a slow, maddening calm. Like he'd been waiting to hear you say that.

"Good. That means you still feel something." His thumb brushed your cheek, eyes locked on yours with a heat that made your spine lock in place. "Hate... hate I can live with."

You gritted your teeth, your jaw trembling with the force of all the things you wanted to scream at him. "You're delusional—"

You shoved at his chest with both hands, trying to create space, to breathe, to escape him and everything he stirred in you. But he moved faster. Like he'd been ready for it. In one swift motion, he caught your wrists, reversed the momentum, and pressed you back—your spine meeting the wall behind you with a dull thud.

The impact wasn't violent, not enough to hurt, but enough to send a clear message: you wouldn't push him away so easily.

"You son of a—!"

The curse had barely left your lips when he closed the distance.

His mouth crashed against yours, cutting your words short, swallowing them in a kiss that was fierce and consuming. His hands pinned yours above your head, not rough, but unrelenting, and his body boxed you in, heat radiating off him like fire caught in a cage. It was a kiss made of everything you hated and everything you hadn't allowed yourself to feel—grief, fury, history.

For a moment, all that existed was him. The pressure of his lips, the tension in your arms, the feeling of being seen and claimed, even when all you wanted was to be free. Silco kissed you like he owned that hate. Like it was something he cherished. Like he'd been waiting for it.

You didn't mean to return the kiss. You didn't think. You acted.

Something inside you shattered the second his lips crashed into yours, and before you could stop yourself, you kissed him back—just as hard, just as desperate, just as goddamn ruined. There was nothing soft about it. It wasn't gentle or tender or even remotely sane. It was all teeth and breath and bitterness; it was rage dressed up as intimacy.

Your mouth moved against his like it had something to prove, like if you kissed him hard enough, maybe you could erase everything that had ever gone wrong. Your hands twitched against his grip, your pulse roaring in your ears like thunder. And he kissed you like he wanted to possess you, like he was devouring the pieces of you that no one else ever got close enough to touch.

It felt like it lasted forever—an eternity of punishment and confession, of love and loathing tangled into something too ugly to name and too powerful to fight. This was what love did. It made you weak. It made you stupid. It made you feel like you were dying and flying all at once. It was heaven and hell sharing the same breath.

And then—finally—he pulled back, breaking the kiss like he was tearing himself from a dream. But he didn't let go of you.

Silco pressed his forehead to yours, his breathing uneven, chest rising and falling against yours like he'd just walked through fire. His hands still held your wrists against the wall, not tight, but present.

"For someone who hates me, you still kiss like you love me."

That sentence broke the spell, so you headbutted him.

The impact was solid, a sharp crack of skull meeting nose, and Silco immediately recoiled, releasing you as he stumbled back, one hand flying to his face. He turned slightly, fingers smearing across the bridge of his nose where a thin trail of blood had begun to slide down. He looked at it—at the red now staining the tips of his fingers—and then, of course, he laughed.

A dry, mocking, sarcastic little chuckle. "Still aggressive, dove."

That—that word—was what broke you.

Your body moved before thought had a chance to interfere. You lunged at him, hands grabbing for his collar, his shoulders, whatever you could hold. Your momentum slammed him backward, and this time he stumbled for real, off-balance and unprepared. The both of you crashed to the ground with a rough thud, his back hitting the floor hard, and you landed on top of him.

You straddled his hips, your thighs tightening around his waist like a vise, your hands going straight for his throat.

You watched it happen—the subtle shift in his expression. That cocky, smug mask he always wore faltered for a breath, and you saw something flicker behind his eyes. Fear. Real, raw fear. His body trembled under yours, not from pain, not from physical weakness, but from something deeper. You knew what it was. You knew what that kind of touch did to him—what the feeling of hands on his neck meant. It brought back things he never spoke of. Shadows shaped like Vander. Like betrayal. Like drowning.

His hands shooting up to your wrists the moment your grip tightened on his throat. The motion was instinctive, maybe even desperate. But he didn't fight you. He didn't try to pull you off or pry your fingers away. He just held on. As if his body still hadn't decided between fear and surrender.

And yet—he let you.

You felt his fingers slide down, grip shifting until they were digging into your waist. Not rough, not angry—just there. Possessive. Reclaiming something. His gaze climbed back to meet yours, and the fear that had cracked through his mask was already sealing shut. In its place came that arrogant tilt of his chin, that infuriating gleam in his eye like he was daring you to go further. Daring you to give him the pain he thought he deserved.

"I missed this position."

You curled your fingers harder around his throat in response. He wanted this? Fine. You'd give it to him.

"Shut the fuck up,"

But he didn't listen. Of course he didn't.

His eyes dipped, down to your neck—down to it. That necklace. The one he had given you. His brow arched, just slightly. "You're still wearing it."

"I told you to shut up."

"Then make me." he said, voice raspy but smug as his grip on your waist tightened. "If that's what you want. Do it. I won't stop you."

And he didn't.

He didn't try to shift his weight. He didn't try to flip you. He didn't even look like he was thinking about it. He just stayed there—beneath you—eyes locked on yours, mouth parted slightly as your thumbs pressed in harder and harder. Waiting. Welcoming it.

His trust infuriated you more than any of his lies ever had. So you gave him what he was asking for.

You clenched your hands around his throat, tighter than before. You felt the cords of muscle strain beneath your grip, the thrum of his pulse growing unsteady. His breathing grew ragged, mouth twitching in half-suppressed gasps. His hands clutched your waist harder, nails biting into your hips through the fabric. But he still didn't fight.

And then—finally—his grip faltered.

You watched his eyes flutter, the tension drain from his jaw, and his arms slipped from your body entirely, falling limp to the sides like strings had been cut. His body sagged beneath you, and for one terrifying moment, he was still. Too still. But then you felt it—beneath your palms, against his throat—he was still alive. A heartbeat. He was unconscious, not dead.

You'd knocked him out.

You didn't move right away.

You sat there, your thighs still bracketing his hips, your fingers trembling slightly from the remnants of adrenaline and fury. Silco's face was slack, devoid of all the sharp edges and venom that usually lived there. He looked... peaceful. Almost human. It was wrong. It made your throat tighten.

You didn't mean to go that far, but the truth was, violence was the only language the two of you ever spoke fluently. The only language where nothing got lost in translation. And this? This was just another kind of conversation. Twisted. Ugly. Honest.

Your hands slipped from his throat, and slowly, cautiously, you leaned forward until your chest brushed his. You lowered your head until your cheek came to rest against the center of his chest. Warm. Solid. You could feel his heart beating beneath your skin and gods help you... it made you want to cry.

That heartbeat shouldn't mean anything. Not anymore. And yet it reminded you—too much. Of long nights and low conversations, of promises he never said out loud but still kept in his own cruel, broken way. It reminded you of who he had been, even if you didn't recognize what he'd become.

You drew in a shaky breath and stayed there for a moment longer—just long enough to ground yourself. And then, slowly, you lifted your head and looked down at him.

His face was pale in the low light, the bruise beginning to form along his neck a dull contrast to the dried blood still staining his nose and mouth. You leaned in without really thinking and pressed a soft, fleeting kiss to his lips. A ghost of a touch. Not forgiveness, just something fragile you couldn't quite name.

You rose to your feet after that, pulling yourself away from him in every sense of the word. You didn't move to drag him to the bed. You didn't fix his collar or wipe the blood from his face. You just left him there—on the cold floor.

The path to the bar's exit was quiet.

No footsteps. No guards. No Sevika waiting in the shadows with arms crossed and that ever-present scowl. Just silence. A silence that felt too intentional.

You didn't need to look back to know Sevika had cleared the way. You could feel her absence like a presence. She'd cleared the space—not for your safety, not out of kindness— but you also didn't understand why she had moved the men out.

Honestly, you couldn't understand what was happening that day, maybe you didn't even need to understand. All you wanted was to go back to your daughters and forget how Silco was still your weakness.

[...]

You fully expected Silco to send an army after you after that visit. Even though Sevika had told you he'd long given up trying to reach you, part of you couldn't believe that. It didn't add up. Not now. Not after you'd shown your face. After you'd dared to walk back into his territory, however briefly. It made too much sense in your head—of course he'd renew the hunt, redouble his efforts now that he had proof you were still close.

But the days came and went, one after another, and... nothing.

And that silence? That complete and suffocating lack of action? It unnerved you more than an actual attack ever could. You lived in that stillness like it was a trap waiting to snap shut. Every second you weren't being hunted felt like a delay tactic, like he was playing some long game you couldn't see yet.

You'd been on edge before, but this—this was paranoia in its purest, sharpest form. The kind of fear that sinks into your bones and makes a home there. You hadn't felt like this since the day you first walked out of the Institute.

You were so wound up you stopped visiting Viktor.

The thought of Silco discovering that connection, of realizing that your presence in Piltover wasn't just ghostly rumors and shadows, but tethered to real people—people he could reach, people he could use—it was too dangerous.

You couldn't let that happen. Especially not with Vi.

You were doing everything in your power to keep her safe. Keeping her locked away in Stillwater had never felt right, but it was the only way to make sure she stayed off Silco's radar. If he found out she was alive, it wouldn't just be about you anymore. Vi would be a target.

And if he already had the Sheriff of Piltover in his pocket... how many enforcers did that give him access to?

You didn't start to feel normal again until one of the prison medics pulled you aside that late afternoon, his voice hushed and his expression caught somewhere between confusion and cautious optimism. He told you Violet's tests had shown an unexpected improvement—significant, even. Her healing accelerating in ways that didn't match the standard treatment she'd been on for months. No changes had been logged. No new medications. No updates in protocol. To everyone else, it didn't make sense.

But to you? It made perfect sense.

You knew exactly what had changed.

And that's how you found yourself hours later, standing outside Viktor's apartment in the middle of the goddamn night, completely drenched from the downpour that hadn't let up all evening. Rainwater streamed off your uniform in heavy droplets, pooling around your boots and running cold rivulets down the back of your neck. The fabric clung to your skin like a second, miserable layer, and of course, of course you hadn't bothered with a cloak or an umbrella. You'd been in too much of a hurry. Too impatient. Too... desperate.

As if showing up to an apartment this late at night as a soaking-wet enforcer wasn't already suspicious enough.

You knocked only once, sharp and precise, and waited. When the door finally opened, you were met with the soft glow of lamplight spilling into the hallway, and Viktor's unmistakable silhouette standing there in that warm, quiet calm that always surrounded him like some kind of shield.

He didn't say anything at first. Just looked at you. Head tilted. Golden eyes slowly scanning you from head to toe in the most profoundly unimpressed, judgmental silence you'd ever witnessed.

You weren't sure what kind of greeting you expected. Maybe a simple "come in," or a muttered complaint about the hour. But instead, Viktor just let out a slow breath, disappeared back into his apartment without a word, and returned a moment later with a towel in hand.

You almost laughed. The absurdity of it all.

You took the towel with a quiet "Thanks," and stepped inside carefully, trying your absolute best not to soak the floor. Which, of course, was impossible. You left a trail anyway—dripping footsteps and the soft squish of your boots echoing in the otherwise peaceful space as Viktor locked the door behind you. You could feel his eyes on your back as you shrugged off your jacket, your fingers clumsy and chilled.

"If I didn't know you were physically incapable of getting sick, I'd say you're going to come down with the worst cold of your life tomorrow."

Viktor's voice held an edge of amusement, his usual dry wit softened by a rare warmth. For a man who'd just had someone show up at his place in the middle of the night, he seemed unusually relaxed.

"I started to worry. You vanished these past few weeks. I thought something might've happened."

You ran a towel through your damp hair and turned to look at him, water still dripping from the ends onto the floor. Viktor was standing near the door, arms crossed, eyes observant, curious, no cane.

"Yeah.. That whole mess with the attack on Silco had me... anxious. I've been trying to make sure the girls are safe. Especially since I've had to keep bringing Powder around and—" You trailed off, your voice crumbling mid-sentence as your brain finally caught up to what your eyes were seeing. "Viktor?"

"Yes?"

"Your cane."

"Yes."

You blinked at him. "You're not using it."

"No." His lips tugged slightly at the corner, not quite a smile, not quite hiding his amusement.

"Holy shit."

One second you were standing there stunned, and the next you were throwing your arms around him in a rush of motion and breath and barely contained excitement. He let out a startled sound—something between a laugh and a grunt of protest—but didn't pull away. Didn't even try. He simply let you hold onto him, his hands hovering for a second before resting cautiously on your back.

"You did it!" you breathed, pulling back just enough to look at him. "You actually did it. You created a cure!"

"Not quite, actually." Viktor said, his tone slipping into that familiar, meticulous cadence he used when discussing his work. "This is the same prototype I gave you several weeks ago. I've been taking it as well, to allow for more diverse testing parameters. And, as you can see, the results are... visibly promising. Not perfect. My stability is still inconsistent at times, but considering where I was before..."

He let the sentence trail off, and he didn't need to finish it. You remembered where he had been before—barely able to walk more than a few steps without the cane, breath short, movements slow and painful. And now here he was, standing before you with only a faint tremble in his limbs, his voice steady, his gaze sharp.

"That's exactly why I came." you said quickly, your own excitement beginning to bubble back to the surface. "Violet's scans came back with significant improvements. Her system is finally stabilizing. And, more than that, I discovered the cure has another unexpected effect. It can neutralize toxins, almost immediately. I'm not entirely sure what exactly was affecting him, but either way, it worked."

Viktor's brow arched, his expression skeptical and slightly amused. "And how, exactly, do you know this?"

You shrugged, not bothering to hide the edge of mischief in your voice. "I had a test subject. Someone who was poisoned. I didn't ask many questions."

His eyes narrowed slightly, and you could see the thousand questions forming behind them, but he didn't press. Smart man. You didn't want to talk about that incident with Silco. So instead, you took a small step back, creating a bit of space between you and him, returning to a more neutral distance.

"Either way... we can confidently say we're on the right path. This formula, it's doing more than we expected."

Viktor made a low, thoughtful sound in his throat, almost like a hum, and then stepped past you slowly. You turned slightly, watching him as he moved. There was still a limp in his step, still a slight hitch in the fluidity of his gait. His legs didn't quite carry him as naturally as they should've, and every so often his balance shifted in a way that told you he was still working hard just to remain upright. The progress was there—glaringly so—but it was clear this was still just the beginning. A flicker of what the cure could become.

"It's not a cure yet." he said, echoing his earlier words, softer now. "But it's... a beginning."

He stopped near a table, hand brushing over the surface like he was steadying himself without making it obvious. That small act alone told you everything. However excited he was, Viktor knew his limits. Knew this wasn't the final version. Knew there was still work to be done.

"So let me get this straight..." you said lightly, moving toward the table and leaning on it. "Jayce is off trying to conjure magic with hextech, like a glorified mage with a hammer, and you and I? We're casually inventing the cure to all the world's diseases. No big deal."

Viktor huffed a small breath of amusement.

"I mean, seriously." you went on, moving to sit in one of the chairs, legs crossed lazily. "We're talking about cellular regeneration, full neurological repair, antitoxins, long-term immuno-resistance. If this keeps going, you're not just changing science... you're redefining it."

The words slipped out of your mouth with more fluency than you expected, strung together like you actually knew what the hell you were talking about. And maybe, to your own surprise, you did. Somewhere along the way, between the late nights spent in this lab and the quiet hours where Viktor would talk at you—half-explaining, half-muttering to himself about theoretical models and biomechanical failures—you'd started picking things up.

A phrase here, a concept there. Enough to fake your way through a conversation, or at least bluff convincingly until he corrected you with that raised eyebrow and half-smile he always wore when he caught you talking out of your depth.

"At this rate, Viktor, you'll end up with a statue in Piltover Square. A massive one. Right next to the Academy gates. 'The man who defied death and redefined humanity.' Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

That got his attention. Viktor looked at you an almost sheepish expression on his face, though there was something undeniably pleased in the glint of his eyes. "A statue?"

You grinned and leaned back in the chair, watching him. "Yes! And the Council will have no choice but to give you some fancy prize for your contributions to the 'future of mankind."

Viktor chuckled. He tilted his head slightly, like he was entertaining your ridiculousness more than he should.

"Then I suppose, I should consider what to name such a monumental leap in progress."

You sat up slightly, curiosity piqued. "Oh? You have something in mind?"

He was quiet for a moment, tapping his fingers gently against the edge of the table. Then he looked at you, a small, amused smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Perhaps I'll call it The Glorious Evolution." he said, voice faintly dramatic, like he was delivering a title meant to echo through the centuries.

You burst out laughing, the sound loud and unrestrained in the quiet of the room. "Oh no!" you said between snorts, nearly doubling over. "It sounds like something a megalomaniac would scream right before transforming into a ten-foot-tall cyber god."

Viktor laughed too, actually laughed, and the sound caught you off guard. It was genuine. Warm. So rare that it filled your chest with a strange kind of pride.

He leaned on the table beside you, shaking his head. "I'll keep it in mind for... future branding purposes." 

You smirked. "Just promise me that when the history books write about the Glorious Evolution, you make sure they mention me as the charming assistant-slash-co-architect of salvation."

He tilted his head toward you with a smirk of his own. "Only if they also include footnotes about your reckless field-testing methods and dramatic entrances."

You gave a mock gasp. "Rude."

Somehow, in this flickering moment of laughter and hypothetical futures, the weight of everything—the danger, the paranoia, the uncertainty—felt just a little bit lighter.

.

.

.

.

It's a pity that calm always precedes the storm.

And as if summoned by fate's cruel sense of timing, far across the city, Silco sat in the dim glow of his office. Sevika stood nearby, speaking low but firm, delivering a report important, but Silco barely heard her. His attention was fixed on the letter he held in his hands. The wax seal had been broken moments ago, the folds of the parchment still crisp, the ink only just dried.

Those words were something he had been waiting for months to finally read.

Your dove will return home. I know you always knew where she was. You played your part well—watching from a distance, never interfering, yet always present. Subtle as smoke, patient as the grave. And just as you fulfilled your promise to me, I have fulfilled mine to you. You may go to her. But know this: what awaits you is no happy reunion. It is not a gentle return. It will be a bloodbath.

Part 29

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Love is beautiful, isn't it? So it's time for our lovebirds to get back together... too bad, as I'm the writer, that's not a good sign. You can—and perhaps will—curse me for what happens in the next chapter. Just be prepared. I hope by now you understand that this story isn't a happy romance, so things got dark after this chapter.

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[nyxs2]

When you finish your current fic, do you have any plans for a future new one?

I'll probably take a break from long fics, but I'm open to writing one-shots. Also, I might publish a post so those who follow me and enjoy my writing can give me ideas for plots and themes to write about in these one-shots. But that's something for the future.

[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 27/?)

Family isn’t bound by blood — it’s built in constancy, in the quiet weight of shared moments and the feelings that grow between them. Sometimes, without warning, the most unlikely souls become part of the madness you dare to call home

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 8,9K

Warnings: mentions of stabbings, references to child imprisonment, allusion to human experiments, references to scientific experiments without consent

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

Part 26

For a long while, you just sat there together, in that little world of your own where the outside world could never reach. In that little bubble where nothing else mattered but that moment, which was so simple and mundane yet had completely changed the chemistry of your brain. But there was something else you needed to say—something heavy that had been pressing against your heart since you first decided to find Powder. The reason you're there in the first place.

You hesitated, gathering your courage, your fingers lightly combing through her tangled hair. Finally, you spoke, your voice soft as a whisper in the dim light.

"Do you... do you still remember your sister?"

You felt her stiffen slightly against you, the smallest catch in her breath. She pulled back just enough to look at you, her hands fidgeting in her lap.

"Sometimes." her voice was low and guarded. "I... I dream about her, sometimes. And sometimes, when I'm walking around, if I see someone with a... you know, the same ugly haircut she had." she said with a little watery laugh, trying to make a joke of it, "Then I think I see her for a second."

You smiled faintly at her attempt to be strong, but it didn't fool you. You saw the sadness settle deep into her blue eyes, the way her shoulders curled inward, protective, wounded.

"Silco said... she's dead too."

You felt your hands tighten slightly where you were holding her. You forced yourself to stay calm, to not show your anger. Powder didn't need more confusion. She needed care. She needed the truth—but gently, carefully, like setting a wounded bird back into the sky.

"Do you believe him?"

Powder shrugged, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her shirt. "Yeah... I mean, why would he lie?"

You bit the inside of your cheek, the words you wanted to say burning on your tongue. But you couldn't tear down her trust in Silco. Not completely. Not when he was still, somehow, a part of the fragile world she clung to.

Because even if you had the power to manipulate Powder into your side, to deny Silco's influence, and to make her hate him completely for keeping her away from her sister, you couldn't. It didn't seem right to use her volatile feelings as a weapon against Silco, even knowing that if he could, he would do it against you. Silco loved this child, perhaps more than he loved you, but you couldn't blame him. He would probably give up his greatest dream if it cost him his daughter, and you were so certain of that.

So you protected him. Not for him, but for her.

"Maybe..." you began carefully, choosing each word with painstaking precision, "Maybe he wasn't lying. Maybe he just didn't know. Maybe he didn't look hard enough, or he gave up too soon. Sometimes adults think something is true because they don't want to hope anymore."

Powder tilted her head at you, frowning slightly in that way she always did when she was trying to puzzle out something bigger than herself.

"But... why are you talking about this?" she asked, suspicion creeping into her voice, making it small, defensive. "Why bring her up now?"

You reached out and took her hand, squeezing it tightly between yours, grounding yourself in her warmth, her life.

"Because, I found her." You felt her breath hitch against you. "I found Violet and I'm going to take you to her."

Powder looked at you like you'd grown a second head right out of your neck. Her wide blue eyes were fixed on your face, unblinking, caught somewhere between disbelief and outright shock. You could practically hear the gears turning in her mind as she tried to process your words. It wasn't that she thought you were lying—no, Powder was the kind of girl who would've told you straight to your face if she thought you were full of it. But now? Now she was too stunned to even get that far. Her mouth hung open for a moment before she finally managed to stammer out a single word:

"What?" Her voice was so small, like it barely had the strength to crawl out of her throat. "She's alive?"

You nodded, slowly, watching her face for any sign that she might break under the weight of this revelation. "Yeah. She's alive. She's been imprisoned all these years, hidden away somewhere no one could find her. That's why no one ever heard anything, why it was like she just vanished."

The silence that followed felt impossibly loud. Powder's brows knit together, confusion and a flicker of something else—hope, maybe?—pulling at her expression. She didn't speak right away. You could see her jaw twitch slightly, like she was biting back every emotion rising up inside her.

And then, finally, she asked, "Marcus?"

You exhaled, the sound more of a release than a breath. "Marcus." you confirmed with a slow nod. The name alone was heavy on your tongue, like it carried all the weight of what had happened—of what he had done. "I already dealt with him." you added, voice low, but firm. "Trust me, he won't be stupid enough to try anything again."

The silence stretched between you like a heavy fog—thick, unmoving. You didn't rush it. Powder needed this pause, this moment to breathe, to not drown in the wave of information you'd just unloaded. You only noticed her hands were trembling when your own tightened gently around them, instinctively, like your body knew before your mind did. Her fingers were small in yours, bones fragile, skin cold. She was trying so hard to hold it together, but her body betrayed her. She was just a child, and yet carrying the weight of things even grown soldiers would crumble under.

It was too much.

Too fast.

Too real.

But you didn't let go. You just held on, silently anchoring her while her mind tried to ground itself. After a long stretch of quiet, her voice came out barely above a whisper, a raw crack of worry threading through the words. 

"Is Vi okay?"

Ah. There it was. The question you'd been dreading. Her eyes, still too wide, too wet, searched your face for something—hope, maybe. A lie that could soothe her for a few minutes more. But you couldn't do that to her. Not to Powder. She had been lied to enough.

You let out a soft, regretful breath. "I wish I could say yes, but that wouldn't be fair to you. And I... I'd never forgive myself for lying to you."

You gave her hands a reassuring squeeze. They were still shaking.

"Your sister is sick." you continued. "Really sick. And no doctor has been able to figure out what's wrong with her. They've all tried. All of them. But I'm not giving up." You leaned in just a little, keeping your tone steady even though your own heart felt like it might break from the weight of it all. "You remember the man who gave you the letter? Viktor. He's brilliant, way beyond anything Piltover gives him credit for. He's going to help me find a cure. For Vi."

Powder blinked a few times. Her eyes shimmered, but no tears fell. "And it's going to work?" she asked, voice small, uncertain.

"Of course it will, little one." You smiled, soft but sure, doing your best to offer her something solid to hold onto in the chaos. "It's not going to be easy, and it's not going to be fast. But we're going to fix this. Your sister's going to be okay. She's strong. Just like you."

Without warning, Powder lunged forward and pressed herself against you again, her head thudding gently against your chest like she was finally letting herself collapse from the weight of it all. Her arms didn't wrap around you, not at first—she just leaned into you as if your body could hold her up, could shield her from everything spinning out of control in her world. You instinctively wrapped your arms around her small frame, curling around her like a shell closing over something fragile.

And it was then, as you felt her breath hiccup against you, that you noticed something. Her fingers were curled tight around something between them, and when you glanced down, you recognized it immediately. The glint of the pendant, the delicate chain—it was your necklace. Her voice broke the silence, soft and unsure, barely more than a breath.

"Can we go see her?"

Your throat tightened at the question. There was something so raw in her tone, so stripped down. Not the voice of a manic genius or a volatile powder keg. Just a little girl. A girl who had spent too long believing she'd destroyed the one person she loved most. You let your chin rest gently on top of her messy blue hair, pulling her tighter into your arms like she might vanish if you let go.

"Of course." you murmured, your voice low but steady. "That was the plan all along. I just need to know how long you can disappear before Silco starts wondering where you've gone."

Powder gave a little hum, thinking, and then snorted lightly with a mischievous grin that you could feel against your shirt.

"I think I've got until tonight." she whispered conspiratorially. "Silco usually sends that giant brick wall Sevika to check my lab to make sure I'm 'resting' like he tells me to." You arched a brow, but she beat you to the punch with a giggle that sounded like it was still carrying the tail end of a sob. "I always pretend I'm passed out at my desk so she'll leave me alone. She doesn't even bother to poke me anymore. Just grunts and walks off."

Powder shifted slightly in your lap, pulling away just enough to give herself space, though she didn't move from where she sat. She lifted the necklace. Her fingers closed around the chain as if she wasn't entirely ready to let it go, her expression unreadable. Then, finally, she looked up at you and said softly, 

"This is yours."

You stared at the necklace for a moment, then arched an eyebrow. "Why don't you put it on me?"

It wasn't a demand, not really. But Powder took it like it was—like some quiet command she was more than willing to follow. There was a tenderness in her movements as she leaned closer, trying to drape the necklace around your neck with a care that bordered on reverence. 

You helped guide her small hands into place, and she fumbled with the tiny clasp for several long minutes. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she concentrated, brows furrowed, tongue peeking slightly from the corner of her mouth like it always did when she was trying really, really hard.

Finally, with a tiny click of metal, she got it. A victorious huff escaped her lips. She gently adjusted the chain so that the pendant rested perfectly at the center of your chest, and then she did something that made your breath catch.

She fixed you. Just like she had that night at the ball. A stray strand of hair was tucked gently behind your ear, her touch feather-light and delicate. Then her hand brushed away a bit of imaginary dust from your shoulder, and her thumb ran across the curve of your jaw as if smoothing away some invisible smudge. It wasn't just a gesture—it was a memory. A ritual, almost. Something soft and sweet that only the two of you understood.

And then, when the silence returned, you asked quietly, "Ready to see your sister?"

Powder nodded, but the motion was hesitant, her confidence faltering before it could truly form. Her face twisted into a small, pained expression, and her voice came out so quiet, it almost didn't reach you. 

"What if she doesn't like me...? I... I changed after she left. I'm not the same anymore."

You felt your heart ache at the vulnerability in her voice. You brought your hands up gently and cupped her face, coaxing her to look at you. Her eyes met yours—blue, filled with too many emotions for someone so young. She still looked like a child, but her eyes held something older. Something that shouldn't have ever had to grow there.

"Oh, my little one..." you said softly, thumb brushing her cheek. "Your sister could never stop loving you. Never. No matter how much either of you has changed. You've both walked through fire. But what matters now is that you're here. That you're together."

She blinked hard, as if holding back tears she didn't want you to see, then nodded again, slower this time. And you could feel it—that trembling, delicate hope beginning to take root in her chest.

[...]

Getting to the Stillwater hold was the easy part. Slipping into the transport bay, where they loaded prisoners into those cold, humming steel wagons bound for the prison? That was a whole different beast—especially when you were trying to sneak in with a litlte girl glued to your side. But of course, Jinx had the most brilliant idea imaginable: fake a prisoner transfer. She even insisted on being the prisoner herself, and to your reluctant surprise, the plan worked far too well.

No one questioned it when you marched down the platform wearing that enforcer uniform and with a firm grip on a squirming Powder, who had fully committed to her role as a Zaunite troublemaker. She kicked at the air, grumbled under her breath, eyes darting around like a trapped animal, and even spit once—convincingly, you might add. No one batted an eye.

No questions. No hesitation. You had walked right past half a dozen guards, a few transport officers, an entire hallway of people who looked the other way as you dragged a child into one of the most secure prison entryways in all of Piltover.

No one cared. No one asked why a girl—a child—was being taken into Stillwater. A kid from Zaun? That was enough. That was always enough.

The moment you stepped into the check-in checkpoint, though, everything in your gut told you this was where the real trouble would start. Standing in front of the reinforced gate was the Warden. Not a warden. The Warden—the man who oversaw every body that passed through the front of the prison.

His figure was massive, built like a slab of stone with arms like tree trunks and a neck that had seemingly been lost somewhere between his hulking shoulders. His face was the kind you saw carved into war memorials—harsh and square, a wide jaw clenched tight beneath a jutting chin. His skin was a sickly pale gray, almost as if the prison's cold lighting had seeped into his flesh over the years and made a permanent home there.

He stared at you with narrowed, deep-set eyes under thick brows that didn't twitch once. You felt the weight of his gaze drag across your face, then slide over to Powder. Her fidgeting slowed a little, not out of fear, but something sharper—something like the deep instinct to run that all street kids developed early. You saw it in her too-wide eyes, in the way she shifted her weight onto the balls of her feet, always ready to bolt.

This was the moment. You could feel the blood rising in your ears. If he asked one question—just one—you'd have to knock him out. If he touched Powder, you'd break his arm. Your fingers tensed slightly around her wrists, preparing for the worst.

"We're locking up kids now and no one told me?" the Warden asked, half-joking, though his voice still scraped like a dull blade against stone. He leaned forward ever so slightly, casting a long, looming shadow over Powder as he looked her over with more interest than you were comfortable with.

It took everything in you not to step between them. You could feel your fingers twitching with the urge, the fire crawling up the back of your spine. You hated that look. The way men like him looked at people from Zaun—especially the young, vulnerable ones. As if the worst parts of the world had already claimed them, so there was no point in pretending they were worth protecting.

You forced yourself to stay in character. Just another enforcer. Just another boot on the neck of someone too small to fight back.

"Marcus sent me." you said, keeping your voice low and indifferent, just the right mix of boredom and detachment. "Said I should teach her a lesson. She got caught trying to lift from some Piltie noble. You know how they get."

The Warden's lip curled slightly, something between amusement and disdain. "Oh, I know exactly how they get." 

He turned back to his desk with a grunt, scribbled a quick signature on a line without even looking up again, and handed you a rusted key, the metal cold and heavy in your hand.

"Solitary." he said, voice flat. "Downstairs. She can't go in with the others, not with her size. Toss her in there for a few hours. Let her stew."

That was it. No further questions. No paperwork checked. No suspicion. Just a key and the sound of a gate sliding open again.

You nodded once and started moving, gently tugging Powder along. She didn't resist. Her act was still perfect—eyes downcast, body slouched just enough to seem defeated, but still tense enough to pass for some kid who hadn't fully given up. You knew her well enough to feel how fast her heart must be racing, the way she kept close without clinging, her fingers brushing yours as if seeking some invisible tether in the dark.

You led her down the hallway, your boots echoing on the cold, metallic floor. The walls of Stillwater seemed to close in the deeper you went. The air was different down here—heavier, somehow. Full of something stale and sharp, like rust and rot and things people weren't meant to breathe in for too long.

And just like that—just like that—you'd smuggled Powder into Stillwater.

The walk to Vi's solitary cell was nothing short of suffocating. The hallway was long and quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that pressed against your ears, threatening to smother the thoughts in your head. The lights overhead flickered with that sickly fluorescent hue, casting long, distorted shadows across the cold floor. It was the kind of place where time seemed to stretch and twist, where each step felt like it echoed into some endless void. Powder walked beside you, smaller than usual, her arm brushing yours as her fingers crept slowly toward your hand until they found it—and held on tight.

Then, just before Vi's cell, she stopped. Her hand tightened around yours like a vise.

You halted with her, watching in silence as she stared ahead at the cell just one door down. She didn't look at you, didn't speak—just stood there, her small shoulders trembling slightly as she inhaled, sharp and unsteady. You could feel the fear radiating off her, not fear of the prison or the guards or what came next, but fear of her. Of Vi. Of what she might see in her sister's eyes after three long years.

But then she gritted her teeth. Took another breath. And walked.

You let her guide your hand forward this time, step by step, until you both stood in front of the cell you came for.

Inside, Violet was sitting on the edge of the narrow metal cot, halfway through lifting a small paper cup of pills to her mouth. Her posture was slouched. The moment you knocked on the iron bars, the sound cracked through the hallway like a whip.

Vi turned toward you with a frown, her jaw clenched. She looked tired. Not just physically, but in her soul. Her gaze locked onto yours, unflinching and suspicious, even as she downed the pill and tossed the cup aside with a sigh.

"What do you want?"

You didn't answer. Instead, you just smiled.

And slowly, you pulled out the rusted key and slid it into the lock. The mechanism groaned as the door creaked open, the sound dragging along the corridor like a warning. Vi tensed, pushing to her feet, her stance shifting into something instinctive—guarded, ready.

You tilted your head and gave a small gesture with your hand—toward the figure standing just out of Vi's sight.

Powder.

She hesitated. Just for a second. And then she stepped forward, small and trembling, into the line of Vi's vision.

It was like the air collapsed in on itself.

"Powder?"

Vi's voice was calm, but there was a tremor beneath it—so slight you might've missed it if you didn't know her like you did. There was something tight in the way she said the name, something cautious, like she wasn't sure if speaking it too loud would make the vision in front of her vanish. Her stance didn't change, not yet. She just stood there, staring—completely still, all her fire and suspicion suddenly burned away into something raw and unspoken. Her eyes were locked on that small, trembling figure just inside the doorway, and for a long moment, nothing else seemed to exist in her world.

"Vi?" Powder's voice was barely audible—fragile, uncertain, like it might break if she tried to say anything more.

Vi took a step forward. Powder mirrored it.

And that was when you saw it. The mask Vi had worn began to crumble. She pressed her lips together, trying so hard to keep it in, to stay composed. But the moment her eyes softened, the moment the corner of her mouth trembled, you knew it was over. The walls were falling.

She swallowed hard, chest rising with a sharp inhale that caught in her throat. For a second, it looked like she might speak again, but nothing came out. Instead, a quiet sound escaped her—half gasp, half sob—and then she moved.

She ran.

"Oh, Pow-Pow..." Vi breathed, and it was like the words tore straight out of her soul.

She dropped to her knees the moment she reached her sister, her body folding like it couldn't carry the weight of everything she'd been holding in. Her arms wrapped around Powder in a desperate, crushing embrace—protective, terrified, overwhelmed. You took a step back, instinctively giving them space, because this moment wasn't yours. It was hers. Theirs.

And Powder... she didn't move at first. For a breathless heartbeat, she just stood there, stiff in Vi's arms, as if the contact didn't feel real—like it might be taken away any second. But then something inside her gave out. She collapsed forward into her sister, arms clinging tight around Vi's neck, fists gripping her prison uniform like it was the only thing anchoring her to the world.

She started to cry. Not softly, not gently. It was loud and guttural and real, the kind of crying only a child can do when they've been holding back for far too long. Her shoulders shook violently, and she buried her face into the crook of Vi's neck as if trying to disappear there, to go back to some safer place where the world hadn't torn them apart.

You stood frozen, your heart cracking wide open at the sight. You weren't even sure when you started holding your breath.

Vi held her like she was trying to piece her back together. Like if she just held tight enough, long enough, maybe none of it would've happened. Maybe this was all some awful nightmare, and she could finally wake up—with Powder safe in her arms, just like she was supposed to be.

Vi didn't let go for a long time. Her fingers curled into the fabric of Powder's clothes, clutching her like she was afraid someone might tear her away again. Powder was still shaking, her small frame trembling under the weight of everything she'd been holding back for three years. Her sobs had quieted into small, broken hiccups, but her grip hadn't loosened. Not even a little.

Eventually, Vi leaned back just enough to see her sister's face. She cupped Powder's cheeks with rough, calloused hands—thumbs brushing away the tear tracks that kept falling no matter how hard Powder tried to stop them.

"Look at you..." Vi murmured, voice hoarse, choked with emotion she couldn't quite swallow down. "You're so—" She blinked hard, like saying it might shatter her again. "You're so grown. What happened to my little sis who used to drag bombs around, huh?"

Powder let out a watery laugh, her lip trembling as she tried to smile. "She... kinda blew up the workshop."

Vi huffed a breath—half laugh, half disbelief—and shook her head. "Course she did."

They both laughed for a second. It wasn't light. It wasn't easy. But it was theirs. And it was real.

Vi's face softened again as she searched her sister's eyes. "I thought you were dead." she whispered, barely getting the words out. "I—I tried, Powder. I tried to get back to you, I swear, I—"

"I know..." Powder said quickly, cutting her off with a small nod. "I know, Vi. I thought you were dead too."

Vi exhaled hard, pressing her forehead against her sister's. "You don't know how many nights I dreamed about this. About you. I kept thinking... if I could just see you again, just once... I'd be okay. That everything I lost, it'd be worth it."

Powder looked down, her fingers fidgeting nervously with the hem of Vi's sleeve. "I changed a lot." she said quietly. "I'm not the same, Vi."

Vi leaned back, just enough to see her. "Good." she said. "You're not supposed to be the same, Powder. The world changed. You survived it. That doesn't make you broken, okay?"

"But you don't know what I did." Powder said, her voice shrinking, thick with guilt. "You don't know who I became."

Vi held her tighter. "Doesn't matter. You're my sister, you always were. I never stopped loving you, not for a second. You hear me?"

Powder finally met her eyes, the dam behind her gaze starting to crack again.

"I missed you, Vi... I missed you so much it hurt."

Vi choked on her next breath, the tears she'd been holding back finally slipping loose. She pulled Powder into her chest again, arms wrapped so tightly around her like she could shield her from the past, from the world, from everything.

"I'm here now, Pow-Pow." she whispered into her hair. "I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere."

You watched in silence.

It was all you could do—stand there, just outside the cell, your fingers curled tightly into the sleeves of your coat, as if clutching something could keep the emotion from spilling out. Your throat ached. Your chest felt like it had been split down the middle, cracked wide open by the weight of the scene in front of you.

Powder, weeping into Vi's arms. Vi, trembling as she held her sister like she was afraid to let go. It was everything you'd fought for—everything you'd risked—and yet, all you could do was stand there and try not to fall apart.

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. They burned. But you blinked them away, forcing them back with every ounce of control you had left. Not now. Not here. You had to stay strong—for them. For these two broken girls who were trying, against all odds, to put themselves back together with nothing but an embrace and a name that hadn't been spoken in years.

There was pride in you. Quiet, blooming pride that warmed your chest like the first sunlight after too many cold nights. You'd done it. You'd brought them back to each other. Even in the damp rot of Stillwater, even in the shadow of everything they'd lost, you'd carved out a moment of healing. A piece of peace. Maybe not perfect. Maybe not clean. But real.

And yet—underneath the pride, curled in the corners of your heart—was fear. Not the kind that struck fast and loud, but the kind that lingered. Slow. Poisonous. The kind that whispered in the back of your mind even now: what if it's not enough?

What if bringing them together made everything worse?

Now that they knew the other was alive—now that they'd tasted what it meant to be together again—what would happen if something took that from them?

What would happen to Powder if Vi couldn't be healed? And what would Vi do if Silco got his claws back into Powder—twisted her mind, painted Vi as the enemy?

You wouldn't let that happen. You couldn't. You would burn the world down first.

But the fear was there, curling in your stomach like a sickness. The fear of loss. Of another loss. You'd already survived one betrayal—Silco's betrayal. That pain had gutted you, but you clawed your way through it. You'd buried the wreckage and kept walking.

But this?

Losing them? Losing your daughters.

You didn't know if you'd recover from that. They were the only things that kept your humanity intact, still made you remember that you were human and not a monster. If you lose them, you lose yourself.

Vi's sobs had quieted now. She was whispering something to Powder, too low for you to hear, cradling the girl's head against her shoulder. Powder nodded, still clinging, her face wet with tears. You knew, in that moment, you would die for either of them. Kill for them. Burn for them.

You already had.

And you would again.

You were just about to turn away. Just one step back into the hallway and you'd be out of sight—out of the moment. It wasn't that you didn't want to be there, but the intensity of it all was starting to eat at the edges of your composure. They deserved space. A chance to breathe in each other without your presence pressing on the moment. You needed space too—somewhere quiet where you could finally let go of the tears clawing at the back of your throat.

But then your boot scraped against the concrete. Just a small sound. A meaningless shift of weight. But in the thick silence of that cell, it might as well have been church bells announcing a funeral.

Powder stirred in Vi's arms. She turned, slowly, her cheeks streaked with drying tears, her eyes glassy and red. Her lip trembled slightly, and she blinked up at you like you were already slipping through her fingers.

"Where are you going?" she asked, voice fragile and wet, as if every word was hanging on a heartbeat.

You froze. Something about the way she said it—like you leaving might shatter whatever stability she had left—hit you so hard it took your breath away.

"I'm not going far, little one." you said, trying to keep your voice light, reassuring. You forced a smile, but it felt clumsy, like something stitched on instead of felt. "Just wanted to give you two some privacy. You know, family time."

But she didn't let it go. She didn't nod or look away. She just looked at you.

"But you're family too."

Oh, Powder...

You felt the words like a crack to the chest. You didn't even realize how tightly you were gripping your own hand until your knuckles started to ache. Because it wasn't just the words themselves—it was the way she said them. Like it was a truth. Like it was so obvious it didn't even need to be argued.

But even if Powder thought so, there was still Violet. She was still angry at you, and you would never allow yourself to make her uncomfortable. You loved your eldest daughter, even if she never loved you back.

You tilted your head slightly, trying to keep the smile alive despite the burning behind your eyes. "Powder, I..."

"She's right."

The voice was hoarse but steady.

You blinked, Vi was still on her knees, arms wrapped around her sister, but now her eyes were on you. Clear. Direct. Her expression wasn't hard like before. It was tired, but softer—unguarded in a way you hadn't seen before.

"You're family too."

The words felt like they echoed in the space between you. Not begrudging. Not half-hearted. Real.

You hadn't expected that. Not from Vi. Not after everything. After the fight. The silence. The distrust. But there she was, holding her sister like the world was ending, and still finding the clarity to reach out to you. To include you.

You didn't respond right away. Couldn't. Your throat clenched too tight to let anything through. You just nodded slowly, your lips pressing into a shaky line as your heart cracked wide open all over again—only this time, not from pain. This time, it was something warmer. Something softer. Something that felt like forgiveness. Like coming home. Like healing.

Your body moved before your mind caught up, legs pulling you forward in slow, uncertain steps. The cell felt heavier with every inch, like your chest was filling with cement, like you weren't sure you were even allowed in that moment. But you kept going—hesitant, small—like someone stepping into a sacred space they didn't dare disturb.

And then Powder shifted.

She didn't just make room—she welcomed you. Her small hands reached toward you, already pulling you in as if the idea of you not being there didn't make any sense. The moment your knees hit the cold floor beside them, she circled her arm around your ribs and tucked herself against you. Her head rested just over your heart, and you knew—she could hear it. The frantic rhythm pounding in your chest, too wild to hide. But she didn't say anything. She just closed her eyes and held on.

Then Vi moved too.

You weren't ready for her.

She leaned into you, her arms wrapping around both you and Powder in one quiet motion, and when you looked at her, her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. But there was no anger there. No accusation. Just exhaustion... and something else. Something softer.

She smiled.

It was small and wobbly, like she was still learning how to do it again—but it was real. She smiled at you.

"You kept your promise." she whispered, voice hoarse with emotion. "Thank you."

And then she let her head fall against your chest, just beneath your shoulder, close enough that you could feel the weight of her resting there—not just physically, but emotionally. Trust. After everything.

You froze.

You didn't know what to do. Your arms hovered like they didn't quite belong to you. For a moment, you were terrified to move, like you might break something sacred if you so much as breathed the wrong way.

But then... it happened.

Like a spring wound too tight for too long, something inside you snapped loose. The first tear slipped down your cheek in silence. Then another. And another. Until the dam gave way and the flood came rushing in.

You cried. Loud, open, and unfiltered. Not the quiet, composed kind of crying you were used to hiding behind clenched teeth and steel nerves. This was real. Ugly. Human. You sobbed into the tops of their heads as you held them both—one on each side, each fragile and fierce in their own way—and wrapped your arms around them like you could fuse them to your bones.

Powder clung to you tighter.

Vi did too.

And there you were. Three souls broken in different ways, trying to hold each other together. On a dirty prison floor, in a forgotten cell, surrounded by silence and stone—but in that moment, it felt like the safest place in the world.

You realized something that perhaps both Silco and Vander had realized a long time ago.

Is there anything so undoing as a daughter?

[...]

5 months later

Days bled into weeks, and weeks bled into months. Time moved faster than you expected—slipping through your fingers like water—once you settled into the strange routine that had formed almost by accident. Powder had started visiting Vi every weekend under the guise of spending the day at the training warehouse, sharpening her aim and working on her explosives.

But really, those hours were spent within the concrete walls of Stillwater.

At first, the visits were reckless, improvised. But as they became more frequent, you and Powder began perfecting your little operation. Smuggling her into the prison during the dead hours of the night, when the guards swapped shifts and the world outside woke up, became almost second nature. You knew the blind spots, the quiet routes. You even had a system of signals to warn each other of movement. You'd become good at it. Too good, probably.

And the strangest part? It all felt... normal. The chaos of your past had softened at the edges, replaced by something steadier, something that almost resembled routine.

Powder was different inside the prison. Quieter, more thoughtful. She'd sit beside Vi and just listen—sometimes for hours. Other times, she'd chatter nervously, making jokes that didn't always land, but Vi would still give her that smile, the one that hinted at the girl she used to be. That smile made all the effort worth it.

Your own relationship with Vi shifted too. Slowly. Cautiously. The wall between you, thick and cracked, began to chip away. She started talking to you again—not just curt words or sharp glances, but real conversations. Of course, she was still furious about your involvement with Silco. That hadn't changed. She'd glare at you across the room, arms crossed, and demand—for the hundredth time—to know how the hell you could ever stand him.

"I mean, seriously." she said one night, voice dripping with disbelief. "He's not even hot."

You nearly choked on your own laughter. "That's what you're stuck on? His looks?"

Vi groaned and leaned back against the wall of her cell, dragging a hand down her face. "I just don't get it. The voice, the face, the creepy eye... What part of that made you think, 'Yep, that's the guy'?"

You shrugged, grinning. "You'll understand when you fall in love."

Vi's nose scrunched like you'd just said something offensive. "God, I hope not. Love's nothing but a damn headache." You were about to tease her for being so cynical, but something in her tone made you pause. And then she added, almost absentmindedly, "Especially with girls."

It took a moment for that to register. When it did, you blinked. "Girls, huh?"

Vi glanced at you, and for a split second, her expression tightened—like she hadn't meant to say it out loud. But then she rolled her eyes, like she couldn't be bothered to deny it. "Yeah, girls. Not that it matters. Relationships are a waste of time anyway."

But it did matter. Maybe not to her in that moment, but to you. It was one of the first honest things she'd shared with you since everything fell apart. And it made her feel more human again. More Vi. You didn't press it. You just letting the silence stretch out between you, comfortable this time.

"Powder told me about the time you two spent together with Silco..." Vi began, her voice uncertain and slightly afraid to finish her thought. "How she started to see you as her mother."

That conversation wasn't something you wanted to have, but it was important. Powder didn't remember her mother since she lost her when she was very young, but Violet? She did, and perhaps in her eyes, you were assuming a title that didn't belong to you. After all, being family was one thing, being a mother figure was another.

"Are you mad about that?"

"No." she quickly retorted. "Well, it's weird to hear her refer to you as 'mom,' but at the same time, it's not. Look... I can understand why she sees you that way, and I can't think of it as some kind of betrayal of our mother's memory. You acted like the mother she needed, and I'm truly grateful for that."

You tilted your head to the side as you watched her, your gaze serene and gentle.

"So what's bothering you, sweetheart?"

Vi didn't look at you when she opened her mouth. "I don't know if I can call you that."

You smiled and got up from where you were sitting on her bed and approached her. Her gaze still strayed from yours, so you lifted your hand to her cheek and gently forced her to look at you. She looked embarrassed, and in your opinion, she didn't need to; you understood her.

"If you don't want to call me that, you don't have to."

"But—"

"You're my daughter." you interrupted her firmly, but no less gently. "I would do anything for you and your sister, and that's all you need to understand." You pulled her into a hug, ignoring her grumbles; Violet wasn't one for physical displays of affection toward you. "I don't want you to forget your mother... her memories should stay with you forever, you hear?"

Violet nodded, and after a moment you felt her arms wrap around you. Reluctantly, but they still hugged you back. "Do you think your mother is still alive?"

"I don't know." you replied, resting your chin on the top of her head. "But I really hope so... I want to find out why she left me here."

Violet tightened her embrace. "There must be a reason."

"Yeah..."

And then, there was Viktor — tangled in the middle of this chaotic, spiraling routine you now called your life.

He flitted between projects and allegiances like a man possessed, and by now, it was clear: he was losing himself to this manic rhythm. His schedule made your head spin just thinking about it. Mornings with Jayce and his Hextech ambitions, afternoons buried in Singed's lab with Silco's shadow looming in the background, and nights—what little he had left of them—he spent with you, obsessively trying to crack the code of the cure.

You had no idea how he was even standing most days. He looked thinner, paler. Like the fire in him had turned to ash and caffeine. And yet, somehow, he kept going.

“Come on, Viktor, stab me!”

Your voice rang out far too casually for the words that had just left your mouth. You held the kitchen knife in his direction, fingers steady around the hilt, the blade angled just so that it caught the low laboratory light with a cold gleam. The poor scientist stood frozen in the corner, golden eyes wide with disbelief, looking like you had just sprouted a second head. Or worse—like you’d proposed something more absurd than a breach of scientific ethics.

His gaze flicked between the knife—a perfectly mundane one that had been slicing fruit not ten minutes ago—and your face, as though trying to figure out which part of this situation was more alarming.

“Have you gone mad?” he asked at last, voice tight with confusion but tinged with genuine concern. “What kind of request is that?”

You shrugged, completely unfazed. “You need to test the prototype, don’t you?”

Viktor let out a sharp breath through his nose and dragged a hand down his face, already regretting his life choices. He turned away, limping slightly as he walked past you toward his cluttered desk. His cane tapped softly on the floor.

You raised the knife a little again, half-teasing. “Oh come on… you know it won’t kill me.”

“True.” he muttered, pulling a stack of notes to the side and retrieving the heavy-bound lab journal. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I would still be stabbing you.”

Without warning, he swatted your hand with the thick cover of the journal, the gesture sharp but not painful. Still, you recoiled like he’d genuinely wounded you.

“Hey!”

“You deserved that.” he said dryly. “Maybe no one told you, but scientists don’t just go around stabbing their lab assistants.”

“Lab assistant?” you echoed, voice lilting with mock offense. “And here I was thinking we’d graduated to friendship by now. Honestly, Viktor. You’re so cold.”

You placed your free hand over your chest with a dramatic sigh, as though you’d been wounded—mortally, even. Your entire posture shifted into something theatrical and wounded, as if the betrayal ran deep.

He reached for the kettle, the scent of dried herbs rising with the steam. He poured the first cup carefully, the liquid a pale golden-green, fragrant and hot. Then he glanced toward the chair you always sat in—his version of a peace offering—and moved to set the cup in its usual place before filling his own.

“Stop being ridiculous... Sit, and drink your tea before it gets cold.”

You rolled your eyes—playfully, of course—but obeyed all the same. “It’s not like I asked you to stab me in the heart.” you grumbled, finally lowering the knife and walking over to take the tea.

He shot you a look over the rim of his cup. “You were far too enthusiastic for it to be anywhere else.”

You blew on your tea and muttered into the steam, “Just trying to speed up the process.”

“And I’m trying to avoid ending up in prison, thank you very much.”

Once you were settled, Viktor nudged the open journal slightly in your direction without a word. The gesture was small, thoughtless almost—but it caught your attention. You leaned in, glancing down at the neat, slanted handwriting sprawling across the pages in dark ink. His diagrams were precise, annotated with symbols you half-understood and small notations written in shorthand you were still learning to decipher.

He didn’t seem to notice how naturally he spoke when explaining the contents to you. Or maybe he did and simply didn’t care. He had a way of slipping into that quiet, focused tone when he talked through an idea—words spilling from his mouth not as a lecture, but like a conversation between equals. As if he wanted you to understand. As if he genuinely valued your insight, however flawed or chaotic it sometimes was.

You caught yourself watching him as he explained a theory on molecular stabilization—he simplified it, carefully choosing words he knew you’d follow without making it sound condescending. Somewhere along the way, you’d stopped being just another assistant in his lab. Somewhere, between the arguments and the experiments and the late nights filled with reckless theories and too much caffeine, you’d become something more.

And though he hadn’t said it out loud… gestures like this? Letting you read his raw notes, asking for your opinion on the unpolished parts of his research, offering you tea without prompting?

That meant something. Even if he was too damn stubborn to admit it.

But there was another layer to Viktor's chaos—a secret one. He'd become something like your double agent. Every time he returned from Singed's lab, he gave you updates, no matter how small. Most of the time, his voice would be low and cautious, as if afraid the walls were listening. And honestly, with how deep you all were in this mess, you wouldn't have been surprised if they were.

"The research is... progressing." he had told you a few nights ago, his voice tight, face drawn in that exhausted way that made him look ten years older. "Not well. Not ethically. But progressing."

You didn't have to ask what he meant. You already knew. You could see it in the way he avoided your gaze when he said it.

They were in the testing part: human test. That part didn't surprise you, not really. It was Singed. Ethics were always an afterthought with him—if they even existed in the first place. But hearing it come from Viktor, seeing how he delivered the information with clenched teeth and a tired soul... it twisted something in your gut.

He claimed to be against it, strongly, vehemently, even. But when the time came, when Singed crossed that line, Viktor hadn't stopped it..

The subjects were people pulled from the Undercity, people who wouldn't be missed. They were promised healing, promised something better. None of them survived. The tests were brutal—bodies turning inside out, cells breaking down under the sheer strain of the serum. But in the wreckage of all that death, there was progress. A cruel, unforgiving kind. The time before the subjects died increased—fifteen seconds.

That damn old man had managed to increase the limit.

You hated it. Every fiber of your being screamed that this was wrong. But the bitter truth? The data from those experiments had helped with your own work. Somehow, in that twisted tangle of science and suffering, Viktor had managed to isolate a new pathway—one that made your own formula for the cure a fraction more stable.

The price had been human lives. Real people. And yet here you were, making notes by candlelight, using the data they died for.

Viktor knew it too. He never said it aloud, but his guilt was visible in everything he did—the way his hands trembled sometimes when he handed you a vial, the way he rubbed his face like he could scrub away the memories. He was unraveling at the edges, and deep down, you worried that when he finally came apart, there'd be nothing left to save.

And still, neither of you stopped. Because progress, no matter how bloody, was still progress.

[...]

You were standing at the door of the cell, posture steady, arms crossed behind your back in the typical stance of an Enforcer on duty. It was a quiet Saturday afternoon—the kind you'd lived through more times than you cared to count—watching the minutes crawl by while you guarded the same cell, in the same hallway, with the same sense of unease constantly simmering under your skin. But this time, something felt... warmer. Less clinical.

Powder and Vi were asleep on the narrow cot, tangled up like kids. Powder was completely sprawled on top of Vi, her small frame rising and falling with slow, steady breaths, her face slack with exhaustion. Vi's arm was curled protectively around her little sister's back, and despite the cold cement and the dull buzz of fluorescent lights, the moment felt strangely safe.

Earlier that day, Powder had brought a few of her gadgets—colorful, gleaming little bombs shaped like toys and nightmares—and eagerly showed them to Vi. Her hands shook a little as she explained the mechanics, the chemical timing, the intricacies of the trigger systems. She was proud—so damn proud—and you saw it in her eyes, like she was that little girl again, desperate to be useful.

Of course, you'd made sure every last one of the explosives was deactivated before she'd even walked through the prison doors. You weren't about to risk someone getting blown to pieces inside a high-security facility, no matter how adorable Powder's grin had been when she showed them off.

You were just about to clear your throat and rouse them—Powder wasn't supposed to be here overnight, and the sun was already beginning to set behind the tall windows—when you heard the heavy, uneven footsteps echoing down the corridor. You turned your head sharply to the left, instantly alert. An Enforcer, tall and broad-shouldered, rounded the corner with a sluggish gait, his boots hitting the ground like he was dragging cinderblocks with each step.

Your pulse kicked up slightly.

Without missing a beat, you reached behind you and gave the iron bars of the cell a sharp knock—three quick, deliberate hits. The sound echoed through the hallway like a signal flare. Vi's eyes snapped open almost immediately, sharp and knowing. She didn't need you to say a word—your fingers flicked subtly in the direction of the floor, and Vi, gods bless her, understood the sign: "Hide"

She nudged Powder gently, whispering something into her ear as the younger girl stirred, groggy and confused. But the moment Vi mentioned hiding, Powder moved—sliding off the cot and ducking underneath it in one smooth, practiced motion. There was barely time to straighten the thin sheet before the other Enforcer stopped in front of the cell.

He peered inside, eyes scanning lazily over Vi, who had resumed her usual position on the cot, now glaring up at him like he'd just interrupted her dream about punching Silco in the throat. With one hand, she flipped him off—dead center, no hesitation. Her expression was pure teenage defiance, and it was honestly impressive how quickly she shifted back into that façade.

The Enforcer just rolled his eyes with a scoff, clearly used to her bullshit. Then he turned to you.

"There's someone at reception. Says they need to speak with you. Now."

"And who is it?" you asked, your tone clipped, not bothering to hide the irritation in your voice.

The Enforcer scoffed. "Do I look like a damn messenger boy to you? Go find out yourself. I'm staying here to watch the troublemaker."

You clenched your jaw but didn't argue. "Fine." you muttered before turning toward the cell. Vi was already on her feet, arms crossed, watching the exchange with narrowed eyes and that familiar spark of attitude lighting her face.

"Keep your mouth shut." you told her, pointing a firm finger in her direction. "You're my headache, and I'd rather not hear someone else whining about you while I'm gone."

Vi's response came sharp and loaded with fake venom. "Oh, go fuck yourself."

It was part of the game now—this act between the two of you whenever someone else was around . The constant need to play your roles because one wrong word could crack the fragile arrangement you'd fought to protect.

You rolled your eyes dramatically and turned away, walking off with brisk, purposeful steps, more to get away from the situation than anything else. All you wanted was to deal with whoever the hell was waiting at reception and get back before anything fell apart. The worst-case scenarios were already playing in your head—Powder getting discovered, the Enforcer getting nosy, Vi losing patience and throwing a punch.

But the moment you turned the corner and laid eyes on the person waiting for you, every thought stopped in its tracks.

It was Viktor.

Viktor, standing just inside the main hall, visibly out of breath, his hand gripping his cane tighter than usual, and his brow drawn low in that way that always meant something was wrong. Something big.

And this was the first time he had come to you in person. He always sent letters, without a return address. The connection between you two was not to be discovered.

He looked up at you as you approached, his eyes locking with yours—and for a second, he didn't speak. Didn't need to. His expression told you more than words ever could.

"Your face..." you said slowly, your voice quiet, unsure. "What happened?"

"Where is your daughter?" Viktor's voice came quickly—too quickly. His usual calm cadence was frayed, tinged with something just shy of panic. "The youngest?"

Your brows furrowed instantly. "With me. Why?"

For a brief second, his shoulders dropped just slightly, and he let out the smallest breath of relief as he leaned against the cold concrete wall behind him, his hand still gripping the top of his cane. That tiny moment of composure didn't last.

"There was an attack at The Last Drop."

Part 28

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Did you really think things would stay happy for so long? Oh come on, you know me already. Nothing better for a reunion than an attempted death… oh my, who said that? In this story, I think we can say that Viktor is part of the family.

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[nyxs2]

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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[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 25/?)

Ironic, isn’t it? Something engineered to kill now holds the power to heal.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 11K

Warnings: disease descriptions, "death", delusions about dead people, blood and violence, allusion to human experiments, Silco POV

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

Part 24

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Felicia's laughter rang through the room like a broken bell—sharp, piercing, almost dissonant, as if it didn't quite belong. And yet, to him, it was melodic in its own twisted way. It curled around his mind like a lullaby long forgotten, remembered only in dreams. It didn't matter that it was too loud, too strange. It was hers. And for Silco, that was enough.

Her hands, impossibly warm, gripped his with a kind of reckless confidence as they spun across the old ballroom floor. Dust rose with every step, dancing alongside them in the slivers of light that spilled through shattered windows. The chandelier above them hung crooked, glass teardrops long since fallen, like the shattered remains of a memory. In the far corner of the room sat the orchestra—silent, abandoned. 

Violins with snapped strings. Trumpets with bent bells. The cello, split in half like a body left too long to rot. And yet... the music played on. It filled the air, thick and haunting, as if conjured from the walls themselves. It shouldn't have existed, not anymore. But nothing about this moment obeyed the laws of reality. Or time. Or logic.

He let her lead.

It was strange, to surrender. To give up control so freely. But there was grace in her steps, precision in her madness. She guided him like a maestro, like she had done once in another life. His boots scuffed across the floor in perfect counterpoint to her bare feet, and he followed her movements with the focus of a soldier—but in truth, he felt more like a child again. A student learning something new.

And then he saw them—in the mirrors that lined the walls. Not as they were now, but as they once had been.

Silco's reflection met him with a face unmarked by pain. No scar splitting his face, no eye forever burning with Shimmer. His long hair was tied back into a loose bun, the strands soft and careless, with the familiar fringe still falling across his forehead. A face that hadn't yet seen betrayal. That hadn't yet chosen violence. A man who still believed in something.

Beside him, Felicia remained untouched by time. She always would. Time hadn't claimed her—at least not in the same way it had claimed him. She laughed in that mirror too, but it was less sharp, more real. No echoes. Just her, forever young and free.

She looked at him with familiarity deep, unwavering. There was no fear in her eyes. No suspicion. No resentment for the things he had done or the man he had become. Only that steady, knowing gaze—soft and ancient in its understanding. It was trust. It was love, but not the kind that demanded possession or confession. It was love that simply was. Elemental. Unshakable. A bond forged not through romance, but, through shared silence and unspoken truths.

He returned the gaze with a softness that surprised even himself.

Then, with a grace so seamless it could've been orchestrated by the gods, Felicia surrendered the lead. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. Her fingertips relaxed in his grip, the weight of her presence shifting ever so slightly—an invisible transference of power. It was not submission. It was trust, again. A quiet offering.

Silco moved.

He stepped forward, guiding her now. The rhythm didn't change, but the tempo of his breath did. He led her through the ruined ballroom like it was sacred ground, each movement instinctual, like he had done this a thousand times before. And gods, if the universe would allow it, he would do it a thousand more.

Then, without thinking, he spun her.

It was smooth. Almost too smooth. As if time itself bent to allow the motion.

The lights overhead flickered. A mechanical stutter. The chandeliers sputtered like candles in a dying wind. The phantom orchestra groaned—violins screeched out of tune, brass wailed, the percussion cracked like bones. For a heartbeat, the entire dream trembled.

And then he caught her.

He pulled her back toward him, sharp but certain, and her body collided with his—her back to his chest, her warmth melting into him like it had always belonged there. The lights steadied. The music fell back into its ghostly rhythm. The world, once again, was still.

But something had changed.

Felicia had changed.

He didn't notice it immediately. At first, it was just a flicker—a question unspoken in the curve of her spine, in the way her breath hitched as it touched his neck. But then his hands, still holding her waist, realized what his mind had not yet caught up to.

The frame pressed against him wasn't familiar in the way Felicia had always been—sharp elbows, strong shoulders, always slightly too thin. This woman was softer, more fluid, curved in ways Felicia had never been. Her scent had changed too. Still faintly floral, but not the same wildflower fields from his past. This was headier. Heavier.

This wasn't his friend. This wasn't the girl who once made him laugh when laughter still felt like an option.

This was his lover.

They caught each other's gaze in the mirror.

She stood there in all her ethereal glory, draped in the white dress he had given her on the day of the masquerade ball. The fabric shimmered faintly in the dim light, like it was woven from moonlight and silk, clinging to her with an elegance that felt otherworldly. She looked like something out of a memory that never quite belonged to him—too perfect, too radiant, like a relic of a life he had only glimpsed in dreams.

And beside her—reflected in the glass—still stood the younger version of himself. His clothes were worn, unrefined, almost pitiful compared to her elegance. A street rat in rags standing beside a goddess. But she wasn't looking at his clothes. She wasn't measuring their disparity.

She was looking at him. His face. His eyes. As if trying to see what lay beneath them. There was no judgment in her gaze. Only curiosity and something gentler, almost tender.

He felt it like a knife.

She would have adored this younger Silco. The one still capable of gentleness. The one not yet twisted by betrayal and necessity. He would have adored her too—cherished her with a reverence the older version of him had been too hardened, too tired, to maintain. The older Silco had used her. Weaponized her loyalty. Allowed her to become collateral in a war she never asked to fight.

But this version... this boy, barely hardened by the world... he would have held her like she was something sacred.

His lips found her neck—not in lust, but in reverence. His breath moved slow and deliberate against her skin, drinking in the scent that lingered there. His hands tightened at her waist, drawing her closer until there was no space left between them, no breath that didn't belong to both.

For a moment, he stayed like that—silent, still, suspended in a fragile pocket of time where he was hers, and she was his.

He wanted to stay there. He wanted it more than he wanted control, more than he wanted vengeance, more than he wanted the freedom he had built in Zaun with blood and fear. But the music called them back.

So he moved.

Another spin, gentle this time. He let her turn beneath his arm, her dress sweeping the dust from the floor like a painter's brushstroke. And when she returned to him, their positions mirrored the beginning. Her hand in his. Her body once again yielding to his guidance.

But his leadership didn't last long.

Just as the transition of power had been seamless when Felicia passed it to him, so too was its return—so subtle it could have gone unnoticed by anyone not paying close attention. One moment, he was leading. The next, he wasn't. Her steps grew surer, her rhythm stronger, and suddenly Silco found himself following again. He resisted at first—of course he did. 

Authority wasn't something he gave up easily. It had been torn from his grasp too many times for him to part with it willingly now, not when it had been handed to him so deliberately by Felicia. He fought for it in the only way the dance allowed—subtle shifts of weight, intentional missteps, gentle pressure on her waist, his hand tightening in hers.

But she responded with equal determination.

Their dance became a disguised struggle, a silent war waged through movement and breath. A rebellion masked by grace. There were no missteps, no breaks in rhythm—just the undercurrent of tension that grew between them, pulsing through each turn, each pivot. It was a power struggle painted as poetry. A conversation that required no words.

But in the end, there was only one victor.

Him.

By sheer force of will, or maybe because some part of her chose to yield, Silco reclaimed control. His hands steadied her hips, his stride grew sure once more, and she—whether by submission or design—followed. They moved together in perfect sync, their reflections spinning across the mirrors like memories made flesh.

And then—silence.

The final note of the phantom orchestra rang through the air like a dying breath, reverberating through the bones of the ballroom. It echoed into stillness, and there they stood—centered in the ruins, in the quiet aftermath of music that had never truly been real.

She looked up at him.

Her eyes, wide and unblinking, met his with something that felt older than time. Devotion. But it wasn't the kind that lifted or healed. It was the kind that consumed. That burned from the inside out and left nothing behind but ash and memory. A look that meant everything and nothing all at once.

A look that meant love.

Not the gentle kind. The destructive kind. The kind that hollowed men out.

Silco leaned in slowly, the weight of the moment thick in his chest. He didn't know what he was reaching for—a kiss, a confession, a surrender—but it didn't matter. His lips were just a breath away from hers when something shifted.

Her body collapsed.

No sound. No cry. Just her knees giving way beneath her, like the strings had been cut.

He caught her instinctively, arms closing around her as they both crumpled to the ground. Her weight pressed into him—heavier now, limp, wrong. His hand found her back, then lower, searching for the shape of her breath, the rise and fall of her chest. But there was none. Then he saw it.

The blood.

Dark and blooming through the white of her dress like ink spilled across a page. Spreading from the center of her chest in slow, cruel tendrils. A dagger, buried deep, the hilt barely visible beneath the crimson that soaked her.

Silco lifted his gaze, and there—waiting for him in the cracked, dust-veiled mirror—was himself.

Not the version that had danced. Not the boy with soft features and wild hair. No. It was him. The man he had become. Older. Hardened. Scarred. His good eye burned beneath the weight of sleepless nights and poisoned dreams, staring back with that familiar, detached indifference—the same look he gave the world when he no longer had the strength to care.

But that wasn't what chilled him.

It wasn't the expression. It was the hand. The reflection's hand gripped the dagger's hilt.

Not floating above it. Not reaching toward it. Holding it. Firmly. Like it had always belonged to him. Silco's heart stuttered. He blinked, hesitating before looking down, dreading what he already knew. And there it was. His hand. Flesh and blood. Wrapped tightly around the hilt, buried deep in her chest.

His hand. 

His hand thrusting the dagger into her heart.

He had killed her.

Silco awoke with a gasp, the kind that steals all the breath from your lungs and replaces it with fire. His body jolted upright, spine stiff, shoulders heaving. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. The world around him—the walls, the ceiling, the cold metal of the room—felt too still. Too real. As if the dream had chased him back into the waking world and refused to let go.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, the sound of his breathing loud against the quiet. He ran a hand down his face, the tips of his fingers trembling. Sweat clung to his skin, cold and damp, soaking the collar of his shirt. His heart was still racing. The memory of the ballroom echoed behind his eyes, the taste of phantom music still on his tongue.

And worst of all—his fingers still remembered the sensation. That damned sensation.

The weight of her. The warmth of her blood. The stillness of her body. The softness of her dress. He could still feel the way her head had slumped against his chest, dead. He exhaled slowly, forcing his body to obey him again. To ground itself in the reality he had carved for himself. But yet...

That dream had teeth.

It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last. It was always her. Always his dove. Twisting her way into the corners of his mind, appearing not as the lover she had once been, but as every version he had failed—as the proof that even in his most peaceful moments, he could not be trusted with love. Not without ruining it. Not without claiming it and breaking it and burying it.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, letting the chill of the room settle into his bones. Sleep had abandoned him. Slipped through his fingers the moment he had closed them around that dagger.

Guilt. Maybe that was what this was. The old stories always talked about guilt like a chain, dragging behind you. But Silco knew better. Guilt wasn't behind him. It lived in his chest, in his fingers, in his reflection.

Whatever peace he might've found in sleep—it was a lie. A trap. And like all traps, it had sprung when he was most vulnerable. He stood, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes. There would be no more rest tonight.

And that was fine.

The world didn't stop turning just because ghosts came to dance.

[...]

"Do whatever she asks."

That was the command Silco had given Marcus, in response to a particularly desperate letter the man had sent weeks ago. A pitiful plea wrapped in official tones, asking for guidance, for help, for anything—as if Silco didn't already know what the real concern was. As if he hadn't felt it the moment he read her name on the page.

It had been a damn rollercoaster. The memory of that strange encounter with the figure from Noxus still left a bitter taste in his mouth. There was something about that thing—too calm, too knowing—that unsettled Silco more than he cared to admit. And yet, the true storm began only after. That damned meeting was the beginning of the end of his patience. She was there. Close enough to reach and he couldn't do anything.

It took every ounce of discipline not to send a team to retrieve her, to tear down the pristine walls of Piltover and burn them to ash if it meant getting her back. But no—he kept his end of the bargain. So he waited. He watched. And with each passing day, he felt the rot of absence settle deeper into his bones.

Three weeks. Three long weeks since the confirmation. And now he was beginning to understand what people called longing. A pathetic word, really. Poetic, romanticized. But the truth of it was anything but beautiful. It was corrosive. It hurt. He hated how much it hurt.

All he had of her were Marcus's letters—meandering, overly cautious updates filtered through layers of cowardice—and a few stolen reports from the Stillwater guards he had quietly bought. 

When word reached him that she was masquerading as some kind of enforcer, a shadow operating under the banner of the same institution that had once hunted her, he'd known then that he couldn't rely on Marcus alone. So he made sure his own eyes were on her—indirectly, of course. Hidden. Quiet. The way he know to be when survival depended on being unseen.

It wasn't just Piltover that worried him—it was him. Her old master. The one who'd molded her, twisted her into a weapon and that he would do anything to get back what was once his. Silco hadn't forgotten him because he was there, and Silco knew better than anyone that he would not sit idly by. Not once he realized his prized creation had returned, hidden in plain sight.

For now, the arrangement with that Noxian organization still held. Fragile, unspoken, but intact. His dove was alive—safe, even, in some twisted way. That mysterious figure from Noxus, seemed to be playing a deeper game. Silco couldn't tell if the they intentions were strategic, protective, or just the movements of a bored puppeteer with too many strings at his disposal. 

Maybe they wanted the founder of the Institute to look elsewhere—to hunt ghosts in the dark, to chase theories and whispers while the truth remained hidden. If so, Silco could only be grateful. He didn't care how it worked. As long as she remained untouched, unseen, unclaimed.

Silco was many things, but naive wasn't one of them. He didn't trust the Noxians, not truly. But he knew leverage when he saw it. And for now, they were a shield. A necessary evil.

But even with all the politics and paranoia swirling around him, only one thing had him genuinely enraged. One thing that made his blood boil with a fury he could barely suppress. Her. The pink-haired brat. The one who was supposed to be dead.

She had haunted his past like a specter and when she vanished, Silco had made it a point to confirm it. He had demanded blood, demanded proof. Marcus had looked him in the eye and sworn—sworn—that the girl was gone. That chapter was over.

Except it wasn't.

Now, years later, the same child had returned not as a corpse, but a grown weapon. Breathing. Moving. Protected and not by just anyone—but by her. The woman he loved. The only person in all of Zaun, in all of the underworld, who had ever truly seen him for who he was—and stayed. And now, she had wrapped herself around the one thing that should have never come back.

He didn't even know what was worse: that the girl was alive... or that his dove had taken to guarding her like some loyal hound, ready to bare her teeth at anyone who got too close. Even him.

It was betrayal, and it wasn't. He couldn't blame her, not entirely, not after everything he'd done. She was loyal to Vander, then the loyalty passed to the damn pink-haired brat.

Silco had confronted Marcus the moment the report landed on his desk. Threw it at the bastard's feet. Called him a liar to his face, venom in every word. Marcus, for his part, had paled like a ghost, stammered some excuses.

Silco didn't care.

The damage was done. The past wasn't buried—it was walking.

Sending assassins after her would be the equivalent of painting a bright red target across his own chest—no, his soul—and Silco knew exactly who would be the one to pull the trigger if it came to that. His little dove. His sweet, broken masterpiece. If she even suspected that he had anything to do with harming that girl, there would be no begging, no talking her down from the ledge. Not this time. She would aim straight for his heart and she wouldn't miss.

All he could do now was hope. Hope that Violet's body would give in to whatever sickness clung to her. Hope that the illness that had taken root weeks ago would finish what he had started long before. Because as long as she lived, she was a threat. Not to Silco directly—no, he not fearing her fists. But to the fragile, volatile balance he'd built atop lies and broken pieces.

There was still one person who didn't know. One person who must not know.

Jinx.

If she even suspected her sister was alive...

He didn't let himself finish the thought. He couldn't.

She trusted him. Through everything, through the fire and madness and years of silence, Jinx had clung to his words like gospel. Vi is gone. That had been the truth he'd fed her, over and over, until it had become a part of her very identity. He'd ripped out her past, rewritten her pain, and filled the hollow space with purpose—his purpose. He didn't do it out of cruelty. He did it because she needed it.

But if that truth ever resurfaced? If that fragile thread snapped?

Jinx wouldn't hesitate.

Her loyalty ran deeper than blood, more powerful than logic or reason—but it was not blind. Silco knew her mind too well. The chaos, the echoes, the fire. All it would take was a moment—a whisper, a face in a crowd—and the illusion would crumble. And when it did, she wouldn't come asking questions. She'd come with bullets and bombs.

For now, he would let her play her little game. Let her wear the mask of a guardian, let her cling to that hollow hope that she could save the girl. If that was the path—the trial—that thing from Noxus had spoken of, then so be it. Silco didn't believe in fate, not in the romantic sense that she used to whisper about late at night when she still trusted him. But he believed in design. In cause and effect. In inevitable descent.

And if the only way she would ever come to accept the truth of what she was—what she had to become—was through disappointment, then he would allow her that heartbreak. He would let her feel the sharp edge of betrayal, not his, not this time, but the betrayal of her own ideals. He would let her bleed for them.

Because maybe the pain of his betrayal hadn't been enough. Maybe it had wounded her, but not deep enough to sever the last threads that tied her to Vander's lies. But death? Real death—the kind that doesn't leave room for second chances, that doesn't flinch when she screams—that might do the trick. If she had to watch that girl die, to see her own hands stained with the guilt of failure, perhaps then, finally, she'd stop running from what she truly was.

Silco took a long drink of whiskey, the liquid searing down his throat, but it didn't bite the way it used to. The burn barely registered anymore. He couldn't decide if that was a mercy or another kind of slow punishment he'd carved out for himself in her absence.

He'd been drinking too much. He knew it. Everyone around him knew it. But no one would dare say a word. He told himself it wasn't because of her, that her absence hadn't carved a hollow into his chest, that the liquor wasn't just a poor substitute for the voice he missed hearing in the stillness of his office. But lies have a way of curdling when spoken too often—even to yourself.

He stared down at the paperwork before him, documents that meant the difference between survival and collapse for half of Zaun. His signature scrawled across them in quick, practiced strokes, efficient as ever. But the truth was, his heart wasn't in it. Not anymore. Not without her sitting across from him, challenging his every word, mocking his seriousness with that glint in her eye that said she understood him better than anyone ever had—and still chose to stay.

Until she didn't.

Silco set the glass down a little too hard. The sound echoed in the room, sharp, final. The whiskey bottle was half-empty, the way it always was these days. He told himself it was just a phase. That once she came back—and she would—things would steady. The world would right itself. She'd see things clearly then. She'd see him clearly.

A sharp knock echoed through the room, its rhythm clipped. Sevika's voice followed immediately after—blunt and efficient, as always.

"Singed requests a meetin." she called from the other side of the door. "Something about the new scientist."

Silco let out a slow breath through his nose, already grateful she'd skipped the small talk. With Sevika, he didn't have to endure the pleasantries or preambles that so many others wasted time with. She spoke in facts, and facts were easier to manage.

"Let him in."

The door opened, the dim light of the hallway spilling briefly into the room before being swallowed again by the ever-present haze that lingered around his office. Sevika entered first—tall, composed, always a presence that demanded attention—and behind her came Singed, quiet as a wraith, moving with that same eerie grace that had always unsettled those not used to him. The doctor held a letter in one hand, delicate in contrast to his gaunt, scarred fingers. His expression was unreadable. It always was.

Sevika didn't move any further once she stepped inside. She lingered by the door, waiting—always waiting—for a cue. Silco didn't speak, merely lifted a hand and gestured toward the worn sofa off to the side. She obeyed immediately, walking over with those heavy steps of hers and settling down without protest.

Singed moved next, taking a seat with slow, measured control. No dramatics. No wasted energy. And then, with the same calm detachment he always wore like a second skin, he dropped the letter he carried onto the desk between them.

Silco let the silence stretch for a few moments longer, his fingers tapping absently against the side of his chair. Then, without shifting his gaze from the now-open letter in front of him, he spoke, his voice low and even, though edged with something sharper.

"If I recall correctly... you once told me you hadn't received a satisfactory response from Viktor regarding our proposition."

There was a beat of stillness, the kind that hung heavy in the air—not tense, but thoughtful. Singed tilted his head slightly, the motion slow, like he was sifting through memories. Then he answered, voice measured and clinical, as always.

"That was accurate... until this morning." He paused, letting the weight of that hang between them before continuing. "A letter arrived. From Viktor himself. He has agreed to join the research."

Silco's brow arched with deliberate slowness, the sharp line of it a clear sign of his surprise. He turned his head just enough to regard the doctor more fully, studying him through narrowed eyes. This wasn't what he'd expected—not in the slightest.

In his mind, Silco had already mapped out two possible futures: one where he'd be forced to coerce the scientist into cooperation, using whatever leverage became most effective, and another where—should persuasion fail—Viktor would simply become another obstacle to eliminate. A regrettable loss, but not an irreplaceable one. That he had chosen to accept, and without resistance, was not a piece that fit neatly into any of Silco's designs.

"Just like that? He accepted without demands? No conditions? No hesitations?"

"None." Singed replied simply. "He offered no terms. Merely confirmed his willingness to collaborate."

Silco's eyes narrowed further, and he leaned back in his chair once more, his thoughts turning inward like storm clouds rolling over the skyline of his mind. He didn't trust easy victories. In Zaun, nothing ever came without a price. Nothing. And people like Viktor—ideologues, dreamers—were especially dangerous when they gave in without resistance. It meant they already had their own reasons. Their own plans.

He glanced again at the letter on his desk, then toward Singed, whose expression remained maddeningly impassive. Silco hated that. Not because he thought Singed was lying—no, the man had proven too valuable, too consistent for that—but because with him, truth could be just as unsettling as deception.

"And you find that curious, I assume." Silco's tone wasn't quite a question.

Singed inclined his head ever so slightly. "I anticipated resistance. Perhaps negotiation. At the very least, a set of stipulations. But there was nothing of the sort. It's... uncharacteristic, even for him."

Silco's gaze drifted to the shadows dancing along the far wall of the office, the low flicker of the chemical lamps casting everything in sickly greens. His mind turned over the possibilities.

What did Viktor want? More importantly—what did he think he could gain by saying yes so quickly?

This wasn't charity. This wasn't desperation. It was something else.

"No one enters a pact without expecting something in return." Silco muttered, mostly to himself, then focused again. "Keep him under close observation. If he starts working, I want records of everything. Research logs, formulas, conversations. I want to know what he's doing and what he's thinking."

Singed gave a slight nod. "Already in place."

Of course it was.

Silco exhaled slowly and turned his eyes once again to the letter. For now, fortune had smiled on him—unexpectedly, perhaps, but undeniably. Viktor's presence could accelerate things. Add legitimacy. Resources. Vision. But Silco had lived too long in the depths of betrayal and blood to believe in gifts that came without strings.

And if Viktor had none...

That only meant the strings were hidden and Silco would find them. Or cut them first.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

[...]

Hours before.

The moon hung high, brilliant and full, casting silvery light across the iron bones of the bridge. It felt like it was watching, like it was meant to witness this exact moment—an unspoken rendezvous under its quiet gaze. Below, the river murmured softly, the gentle lapping of waves against stone pillars composing a rhythm, a steady heartbeat to the charged stillness around you.

The wind teased your hair, strands dancing wildly across your face, some catching on your lashes, others brushing against your lips like whispers. You didn't move much, only turned your head slightly toward the voice that had cut through the silence.

He didn't feel like a stranger, even though this was the first time you'd truly seen his face. Maybe it was the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the way his angular features seemed both striking and fragile. 

His skin was pale, like parchment in moonlight, and his eyes... his eyes were what held you. Deep, knowing, like he was always calculating—like you were a variable in a complex equation and he'd just solved it. Those eyes studied you with a quiet intensity, the kind that might have belonged to a scientist observing the final stage of an experiment.

But what truly gave him away was the cane.

He looked at you the same way you looked at him—like recognition had bloomed in some dormant part of your memory, and now it was impossible to ignore.

Then came that smile. Subtle. Crooked. One corner of his lips tugging upward just enough to be noticed, as if he had solved something only he was aware of.

"I barely recognized you in this enforcer uniform." 

He said, voice calm, but with the casual edge of someone who practiced sounding unbothered. There was something peculiar in his accent, too—an intentional mimicry of Piltover refinement, yet it didn't quite cover the undercurrent of Zaun in his tone. It was too clean. Too studied.

You didn't answer right away. You were still cataloging every piece of him, every flicker of movement in his expression. Even his posture was a puzzle. He stood like someone who had never truly relaxed. Not entirely.

"It's good to see you again, Baroness."

That damn title

"That title doesn't belong to me anymore."

He inclined his head slightly, the corners of his mouth tightening just enough to acknowledge your words. He didn't argue. He didn't push. That alone earned him a sliver of your trust.

"Then..." he said carefully, tone shifting to something more thoughtful, almost curious, "How should I address you?"

You spoke it.

Your name.

Just your name.

He repeated it slowly, almost experimentally. The way it left his lips, wrapped in that deep accent smoothed by his time in Piltover, made it sound unfamiliar but... pleasant. Gentle, even. There was a cadence to it you hadn't heard before. Maybe it was the way he rolled the syllables, or the softness he laced into it like a scientist being careful not to disturb a volatile compound.

There was charm in the way he said it. Subtle, unintentional. And yet, despite that, it still didn't compare.

Because when he used to say your name—when Silco said it—it was different. That was something else entirely. His voice wrapped around it like it owned it. He didn't just say your name, he claimed it, gave it meaning, used it like a knife or a promise, depending on the moment. There had always been something dangerous about it when it came from his mouth. Something sacred. Something ruined.

But that chapter was closed. That part of you was buried beneath too many layers to resurface now. Still, the comparison crept in uninvited, and you hated that it did. You shook it off, grounding yourself in the present. In the man in front of you.

"I'm Viktor, madam."

You noticed it then—something you hadn't registered before. His silhouette had emerged from the shadowed edge of the bridge, the side that sloped downward into the darker veins of Zaun, not the glittering arteries that led upward into the polished, proud heart of Piltover. You hadn't questioned it in the moment—perhaps a part of you didn't want to—but now, the realization lingered like a bitter taste at the back of your throat.

Your body acted on instinct. You stepped away from the edge of the bridge, your boots clicking against the steel in a rhythm more determined than you felt. You turned your back to him, not out of rudeness—but as a shield. A silent declaration that the conversation was over before it even began. That this, whatever it had been, had lasted long enough.

You began your walk, heading back toward Piltover. Toward Stillwater. Back to duty. Back to the cold, predictable structure of a world that made more sense when emotions weren't clouding it. Back to Violet....

But of course, Viktor wasn't the kind to let someone walk away so easily. Just as the distance between you grew—enough that your footfalls had begun to echo in solitary rhythm—his voice sliced through the air.

"I know about you."

You froze.

It wasn't a threat, or a boast. He said it like a fact. A line drawn cleanly across the night sky.

Your breath caught for a moment, chest rising slowly as you turned your gaze just slightly over your shoulder. You didn't face him fully—didn't want to give him that satisfaction—but you stopped walking. Silence rushed in to fill the space between his words and your next move. The river below murmured, a steady undercurrent of noise against the sudden stillness in your head.

He hadn't moved. Still standing at the edge where shadows touched his feet, his form half-draped in moonlight, half claimed by the dark. Like he didn't belong fully to either world.

"You know about me?"

"Yes." The word was clipped, but not cold. There was something beneath it. Something careful. "And not the fantasy version where you were Silco's delicate bride."

His eyes found you again, and it was like a pressure against your ribs. Like he saw through the layers you had so meticulously built.

"Immortality is something impossible to achieve through science, but magic was also impossible, and Jayce and I achieved it. Just like you did." Viktor rambled. "The impossible is just a step that humanity is not yet sure how it will achieve, but it will eventually."

You clenched your jaw. This wasn't how tonight was supposed to go.

You turned fully to face him now, your boots whispering against the metal surface of the bridge. There was no rush. You weren't sure if you were walking toward a conversation... or toward the end of one. A thousand possibilities tangled in your mind as your eyes stayed locked on his. Was this the beginning of a negotiation—or a murder?

You stopped just a few feet in front of him. "Let me guess... Singed or Silco told you about me?"

Viktor didn't flinch. He simply inclined his head, a small nod confirming everything you had already begun to suspect.

Strangely, you didn't feel anger. Not like you expected to. No white-hot fury or betrayal, just... resignation. Calculation. It made sense. Of course it did. You could almost see the path unraveling behind you, the twisted logic of it all. Singed was a thread that tied too many things together.

Silco had taken an interest in Viktor long before the chaos unfolded between you two. You remembered that night at the gala vividly, how Silco's eyes lingered on the boy with the cane, how he'd spoken of genius like it was a commodity to be harvested.

And now, without you, Silco would be scrambling. Desperate. He'd squeeze whatever brilliance he could out of anyone left standing. Viktor wasn't an ally. He was another tool Silco had picked up in the hopes of creating something... someone... new. Someone like you.

"He's using you." you said softly, not as an accusation, but a truth laid bare between the two of you. "Just like he used everyone else. You're skilled, intelligent... disposable."

Viktor's gaze didn't waver. If anything, the corners of his mouth twitched upward, not in amusement—but in understanding. Acceptance.

"I know."

"Then if I were you... I'd run. Get as far away from him as you can. If you know this much about me, it's only because Silco allowed it. As long as you're useful to him, he'll keep you breathing. But the moment you're not—" You didn't finish the thought. You didn't have to. The implication hung heavy in the air. "People who know too much don't get to live long in his world."

There was a long silence, and the sound of the river below seemed louder in its wake. Then Viktor replied, voice soft but unwavering:

"I am aware of that."

Something in the way he said it chilled you. Calm. Almost fatalistic. Like a man who had already considered death and decided he could live with it.

"So that means..." you narrowed your eyes, "You agreed to work for him."

He tilted his head slightly, and for a heartbeat you thought he might confirm it. But instead, with the same unshakable calm, he answered:

"Absolutely not."

"Then why the hell are you still alive?"

"I didn't really accept working for him, but I didn't say no either."

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking your head slowly in disbelief. Not mockery, but something heavier—exasperation, maybe. Or incredulity. As if the mere idea of someone telling Silco they would think about accepting his offer was so far removed from reality that it bordered on suicidal. Silco wasn't the kind of man who tolerated ambiguity. He didn't deal in "maybes." You either belonged to his game, or you didn't play at all.

"I can't tell if that's cleverness or sheer stupidity." 

The words leaving your mouth before you could soften them. Your tone was sharp, laced with something cold and urgent. But it wasn't cruelty—it was honesty. This boy, for all his intelligence, for all his articulate restraint and sharpness of mind, clearly didn't know what kind of monster he was dancing with. 

"Silco isn't patient, Viktor. That man, he doesn't wait for people to make up their minds. He twists them. Breaks them, if he has to." You took a step closer, your boots scraping lightly against the metal of the bridge. "You still have a life ahead of you. A long one, if you don't throw it away dealing with devils like him."

That was when Viktor laughed—but not out of amusement.

It was dry. Cracked. Hollow. A sound that held no real joy, just resignation. He adjusted his grip on his cane, fingers curling tightly around the polished metal, and for the first time tonight, you noticed the tension in his posture. The way his shoulders dipped slightly. The stiffness in the way he shifted his weight. Maybe it was pain, physical or otherwise. Maybe both.

"I don't." he murmured, almost too quietly.

You frowned, caught off guard. "Don't what?"

Viktor didn't look at you right away. His gaze was somewhere distant, past the river, past the spires of Piltover, locked on something only he could see. When he finally turned his eyes back to you, they were no longer calculating—they were honest in a way that made your throat tighten.

"I don't have a long life ahead of me."

And just like that, the night around you shifted.

The cold wind wasn't just cold anymore—it felt sharp, invasive, like it was slicing through the space between you. You stared at him, the weight of those words crashing into you, sudden and unforgiving. That wasn't what you expected to hear. Not from him. Not tonight.

"Oh..." you breathed. It was the only thing that came out, because your mind was reeling, scrambling to make sense of it. Of him. "I'm sorry."

Viktor only shook his head, a faint, tired smile tugging at his lips. 

"Don't be. My condition it's degenerative, rare and incurable." he explained with the detached cadence of someone who had repeated these facts too many times to too many people, until the words lost all weight. "I've calculated the odds. If I'm lucky, a few more years. If not... less."

"Is it something you were born with?" you asked, your voice softer now, but the weight of the question hung thick in the air.

Viktor didn't flinch. He didn't look away or shift uncomfortably. Instead, he answered with a kind of practiced ease, as if the truth had long ago become part of his identity—woven into his bones alongside the pain.

"Since birth. The condition progressed as I grew. The older I became, the more aggressive it got. Every doctor in Piltover has given their verdict, no cure, only management. A slowing of the inevitable. Nothing more."

The honesty in his voice pierced deeper than you expected. It wasn't just that he was sick—it was the way he said it. Not with bitterness, but with familiarity, like someone who had lived side by side with death for so long it had become a companion. An unwanted one, but one he had learned to coexist with nonetheless. You hesitated. Something pulled at your thoughts, twisting them into darker, sharper places.

What would a man with a fate like Viktor's be willing to trade for the faintest hope of salvation? The answer came before you even finished the question.

"Silco promised you a cure."

It wasn't an accusation. It was a realization. A truth that tasted like metal on your tongue. Viktor didn't hesitate—not even for a breath. The words slipped from his mouth like scripture. Like something he had recited to himself a thousand times before daring to believe it.

"Your regeneration... if studied correctly, with precision, with diligence... it could become the foundation for a universal cure. At least, that's what Singed's early experiments suggested. A form of continuous healing, cellular restoration that resists infection, rebuilds tissue faster than it can decay. It renders you immune to sickness. Even the most violent injuries mend in seconds. And now—" he paused, a flicker of awe, or maybe fear, crossing his features, "Not even death can reach you."

You scoffed, though the sound lacked any real bite. It was more reflex than conviction—an attempt to mask the fact that you were genuinely trying to recall if you'd ever been sick. Not bruised, not scraped—sick. An illness. A fever. Anything beyond surface-level wounds that healed too quickly to be normal.

And the strange part was... you couldn't remember a single instance. Not one.

The more you turned the thought over in your mind, the more unsettling it became. It was as if you'd lived your whole life encased in something not entirely human, something... protected. A body untouched by disease, untouched by what usually haunted people sooner or later. It was a realization that sat heavy in your chest, cold and quiet like the first breath after diving too deep underwater.

But that realization came with another—like a domino falling into place behind the rest. A cure. Not for you. From you. A universal cure. One that could change everything for people like Viktor, like Violet.

"A universal cure..." you said slowly, not fully believing the words even as they left your mouth. "You really think that's possible... from my blood?"

Viktor's eyes remained steady on yours. There was no mockery in them, no exaggeration—just truth, however painful or bold it was.

"Medicine isn't exactly my field." he admitted, one corner of his mouth twitching into something that wasn't quite a smile, "But I can't ignore what Singed's early studies suggest. Your immune system respond to infection in a way I've never seen. Not destroy it, neutralize it. Integrate and override it."

You swallowed, the weight of those words pressing down on you. "And you think it could help you? Or at least ease your symptoms?"

Viktor paused, then nodded slowly. "I believe it could. If we could isolate the core structure of your immunity, if we could replicate it... then yes. Maybe not a cure completely, but it could be a kind of stabilizer."

The wind picked up, swirling around you like the city itself was holding its breath. You turned your face away for a moment, blinking hard as your thoughts scrambled to keep up with the implications. It wasn't just about you anymore. It was about possibility. And the path forward was tangled, but not impossible.

"Do you really think you can do this?"

"I wouldn't waste my time chasing an illusion. My time is... finite and I can't deny that seems to be... my best chance."

"To survive?"

"To fight." Viktor corrected, firmly. "To fight against my body. Against time. Even if the outcome is already written, I still want to write the middle. I still want to try."

A fair reason in your opinion.

"And how long do you think it would be possible to make a prototype cure?

Viktor tilted his head slightly, expression sharpening with focus as if already turning over the question in his mind, calculating probabilities behind those keen eyes. He hummed thoughtfully, the sound soft but grounding. 

"Hm... depending on how the research evolves, how the cells respond, how the tests go, perhaps a few years. That's the best-case scenario."

Years.

The word struck like a stone in your gut, pulling the air from your lungs. Violet didn't have years. You weren't even sure she had months.

Violet's condition had worsened rapidly in the last few weeks. Her body was giving out, her breathing had turned shallow and uneven, and there were days where her voice was barely more than a whisper. And no matter how hard she tried to hide it, you could see it—death lingering at the edges, inching closer every day. Her fire was still there, but the body housing it was losing the strength to hold on.

"There's this girl. She's in the same situation as you, but I doubt she has years. Maybe months if I'm lucky." 

Your voice cracked slightly, and you hated it. You weren't used to sounding desperate. But here you were—stripped bare by the weight of helplessness.

"If this cure is possible and it could save her... I can't wait years for a prototype. I'll help you. Whatever you need, blood samples, tissue, observation, I'll be your lab rat if that's what it takes. I don't care, just tell me it'll make a difference."

He watched you for a long moment, silent. Processing.

The gears were clearly turning behind that worn, brilliant face, but this wasn't just about science anymore. This was about promises, lives, guilt, hope—all tangled together.

"It's possible." he said slowly, voice almost cautious. "If your body continues to respond the way Singed's research suggests, and if we can collect enough consistent data..." He paused, his expression softening. "Yes. We could accelerate the process. But I can't offer you certainty. Only a chance."

"That's all I need."

You extended your hand toward him, trying your best to appear steady, like this was just another negotiation. But inside, your heart was a storm. Your fingers trembled slightly, and not from the chill of the wind slicing across the bridge. You weren't scared of him. You were scared of hope.

"Do we have a deal?"

Viktor stared at your outstretched hand. For a heartbeat, he didn't move. Then, slowly, he reached forward, fingers slightly stiff with effort, and gripped your hand in his. His grip wasn't strong—not in the way you were used to—but there was a kind of quiet resolve behind it. A dignity that had nothing to do with physical strength.

"Deal." he said. Then, after a breath: "In fact... what would you say to starting the sample collection tonight?"

You blinked.

"Tonight?"

He offered a tired but determined smile. "There's no time to waste, is there?"

And in that moment, you saw it again—that flicker of stubborn life inside him, fragile yet unyielding. Viktor wasn't going to let death have the last word. Not without a fight. And now, you weren't going to let it have Violet either.

"Then lead the way, Viktor."

[...]

Viktor's apartment was larger than you expected—but not in the way that screamed wealth or excess. It lacked the ornate extravagance you'd come to associate with typical Piltovian residences: there were no gilded fixtures, no handwoven drapes, no artistic clutter just for the sake of appearances. Everything in this space had a purpose, a function, a reason for being exactly where it was. If you looked at it objectively, it was rather spartan—minimalistic, practical to a fault.

But the lab...

The lab was another story entirely.

It spilled over from what might've once been a dining area, or maybe a sitting room, but now it served only one purpose: to house Viktor's mind in physical form. Organized chaos—that was the only way to describe it. Every surface was claimed by papers, stacks of parchment covered in formulas and theories, some crisp and newly written, others crumpled and speckled with dried ink. Dozens of mechanical parts lay like discarded bones of unfinished creations, alongside delicate tools and wires that snaked across the table like veins of some greater machine waiting to be born.

There were ink pots scattered in illogical places—on bookshelves, on the floor, even balanced precariously on the edge of a half-open drawer. Quills rested beside pliers. A worn whiteboard dominated one corner, filled with complex equations and diagrams, some hastily crossed out, others emphasized with frustrated underlines. Your eyes had scanned it slowly earlier, trying to make sense of it, but the only word you could confidently pick out amid the storm of variables and abstract notation was Hextech.

That word, at least, you recognized.

The faint scent of oil and iron mixed with the delicate aroma of chamomile now wafting from the teacup Viktor had pressed into your hands. You hadn't expected that gesture—a quiet offering, warm and steady—but perhaps you should have. It was exactly like him to care in precise, practical ways.

He was currently moving through the room with an almost impatient grace, searching through one of his old cabinets with the kind of distracted determination that came from knowing exactly what he was looking for and not quite remembering where he had placed it.

You had offered to help, of course. It felt wrong to just sit while he rummaged around on your behalf. But Viktor had simply waved you off with a tired shake of his head and guided you firmly into a worn chair near the lab table before disappearing into his own thoughts again.

So, now, all you could do was watch him.

Watch the way he moved—slightly uneven, but never clumsy. He favored his cane more heavily now, you noticed, and every step was deliberate. He muttered to himself occasionally in a soft, accented rhythm, pulling open drawers and scanning their contents with the frustrated focus of a man whose mind was ten steps ahead of his body.

The walk to Viktor's apartment had been strange, to say the least.

Not because of anything he said—he barely spoke, really—but because of how the world seemed to react to the two of you moving through it together. You were still wearing the Enforcer uniform, and even though your face wasn't exposed enough to give you away, people still stared. They didn't look at you with suspicion, though. No one seemed alarmed or afraid. It was more like... confusion. Like the image of an Enforcer walking beside him—the assistant to Heimerdinger—didn't quite make sense.

And it didn't help that it was still early, the streets not fully awake yet. Vendors were only beginning to open their shops, warm bread smells drifting lazily into the fog. The city wasn't loud yet, but it watched. It noticed.

The walk had been largely silent. Not tense, but purposeful. A handful of words exchanged—he'd mentioned his work under Heimerdinger, how the professor was brilliant, if not occasionally too cautious. You'd nodded, unsure of how much he wanted to share, unsure of how much you wanted to ask. The only other time he spoke was when you arrived at his apartment, where he casually mentioned he'd be writing to Singed soon, to inform him of his decision.

There hadn't been much detail in that either. Just that he'd made up his mind. Viktor, it seemed, was a private man.

Now, in the relative quiet of his apartment, the tea still steaming gently between your fingers, you found your voice again.

You blew across the surface, trying to cool it, though more out of habit than necessity. The question had been resting at the edge of your mind since he mentioned the name Silco, and now it finally broke through.

"If you don't mind me asking." you said, keeping your tone even, "What exactly did Silco offer you? What kind of research would you have been involved in?"

Viktor didn't answer right away. He was still standing near the lab bench, one hand resting lightly on the edge, fingers tapping out an unconscious rhythm against the wood. You could see the gears turning behind his eyes—he was always weighing thoughts before turning them into words.

"Something also related to your regeneration." he said, finally turning toward you. "But not in terms of healing."

You blinked, intrigued—and slightly unsettled. "Then what?"

"Singed was vague. As he often is. But he did mention that Silco was interested in pushing your threshold, extending your limit, as he called it. Increasing the duration and frequency of your regenerative state... to the point where your recoil becomes negligible. Or at least, manageable."

You took another sip of the tea, not because it was particularly good—it had already gone lukewarm—but because the simple act of drinking gave your hands something to do while the storm started turning behind your eyes. Your mind was already racing.

What the hell was Silco planning?

It wasn't hard to guess. He was never the type to invest in something unless it served his own agenda. You weren't naïve enough to believe his interest in your body—your mutation—had anything to do with your well-being. If anything, your escape had probably solidified it: you weren't his asset anymore, and that made you dangerous. Unpredictable. And Silco hated things he couldn't control.

Of course he'd want to replicate you. Build his own army. Shimmered soldiers who couldn't feel pain, couldn't bleed out, who would heal through wounds like they were nothing. Monsters cut from your bones and sculpted in his image of power.

Your stomach turned at the thought.

The tea felt bitter now on your tongue.

You had to get Violet and Powder out of Zaun—soon. Before Silco had the chance to finish whatever nightmare he was crafting in the shadows. Before he built others like you. Worse than you. Before he unleashed something no one could stop.

The clink of Viktor setting something down on the bench pulled you slightly from your thoughts, and then his voice came—quiet, almost contemplative, but not hesitant.

"Why did you leave Zaun?"

You glanced up, startled slightly by how sudden the question was, though in hindsight, maybe it was fair. You asked him something and now it was his turn. You exhaled through your nose and set the teacup down, a little harder than you meant to.

"Simple." you said, voice edged and flat. "The research Singed showed you? The experiments? I had no idea they even existed. I didn't know about the mutation. Didn't know what the hell they did to me until it was already too late."

You poured yourself more tea, even though you had no desire to drink it. You needed something—anything—to keep you grounded.

"They didn't ask. They didn't explain. They just did it. Like I was a lab rat, so I ran..." You took another slow sip, keeping your eyes low, the burn in your throat a welcome distraction. "Seemed like a good enough reason to you?"

Viktor paused mid-search, his hands hovering above the contents of the drawer. Then, slowly, he turned his head to glance over his shoulder. His expression was unreadable at first—those sharp, golden eyes catching the low light like glass—but after a second, you saw something faint in them. A subtle crease between his brows. A flicker of something that might've been pity, but not in a cruel way. It wasn't condescending. If anything, it felt like he'd understood a little more of you than you intended to show.

"I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter anymore," you replied, shrugging as you leaned back slightly in the chair. "What's done is done. There's no undoing it."

Your tone was light, but there was a weight in your chest that tea couldn't quite chase away. You looked at him again, deciding to continue the rhythm the two of you had somehow fallen into—a quiet exchange, like peeling back layers without really trying to.

"You seem to know a lot about my abilities." you raising an eyebrow. "But did Singed tell you anything else about me?"

Viktor didn't answer right away. Instead, he let out a thoughtful sound and returned to his task, shifting his cane aside just long enough to reach into a lower cabinet. He gripped a heavy box with both hands, his muscles tensing subtly beneath his shirt. The strain was evident, but Viktor was meticulous in how he carried it—refusing to let the effort show in his expression. Not out of pride, you suspected, but out of habit. Like someone who had spent a long time refusing to be defined by his limitations.

He carried the box to the table with careful steps, setting it down beside you before sinking into the chair just across. Only then did he speak again, fingers running gently along the edge of the box as if steadying himself.

"If you're asking whether I know where your abilities come from, then I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you," he said, his voice level, honest. "Singed kept many details from me and unless you decide to tell me yourself, which I suspect you won't, I'll likely never know."

His gaze flicked up to meet yours briefly, not demanding, not accusing—just open. Accepting. He didn't press. That was something you were beginning to appreciate about Viktor: he asked without expectation. And when you didn't give, he didn't punish you with silence or judgment.

He began unlatching the box, and you watched his long fingers work over the metal clasps, each movement precise. You could hear the faint clink of tools and components shifting inside.

And then, unexpectedly—

"You and Silco." Viktor began, his tone still calm but more curious now. "You seemed... close at the masquerade. Was that relationship genuine? Romantic? Or was it simply contractual?"

You blinked, startled by the sudden shift—but only for a moment. He wasn't trying to provoke you. He was just... observing again. Curious. Perhaps trying to understand you in the same way he tried to understand a formula on a page.

You took a slow sip of your tea before answering, the bitterness of it making you grimace. The drink had cooled just enough to be tolerable now, though it still tasted sharp.

"I love him."

The words hung in the air between you. Not soft. Not heavy. Just... there. Viktor's brow lifted, his head tilting slightly, not unlike a scholar reevaluating a hypothesis.

" 'Love'?" he echoed. "Wouldn't it be more accurate to say 'loved'?"

"When you scientists finally figure out how to erase feelings, do me a favor and let me know." You setting the cup down with a soft clink. "Maybe then I'll finally get this damn emotion out of me once and for all."

The words hung in the air like smoke—bitter, lingering. You didn't really expect a response. But after a beat, Viktor let out a short laugh. Not the polite, practiced kind. This one was genuine, from somewhere deeper.

"Perhaps not even science can resolve that." he said, a flicker of something warm in his voice. "Human emotions are far more volatile than any second-rate experiment. Unpredictable. Inconvenient. Stubborn."

You couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at your lips. "Stubborn is putting it lightly." You leaned your elbow against the edge of the table, propping your head against your hand, your eyes narrowing just a little with curiosity. "Tell me something then, Viktor. Have you ever been in love?"

He didn't answer.

Not immediately. But you caught the slightest shift in his posture—the way his hands stilled over the open box, his eyes momentarily dropping, like the question had touched something he usually kept buried under equations and theories. And that silence? That silence said everything.

You smiled, half amused, half smug. "Ah, so you have."

Still nothing from him, though the corners of his mouth tightened ever so slightly—either in protest or resignation.

"Oh, come on..." your tone was lighter now, teasing. "I told you who I love. It's not like I'm going to run around Piltover spreading your secrets. Besides, if you're going to be poking around in my bloodstream for some miraculous cure, the least we can do is get to know each other."

There was a pause, as though he were weighing the emotional cost of honesty. And then, with a sigh that felt more like surrender than confession, he finally spoke.

"My research partner." he said quietly. "You met him. At the masquerade."

Your eyes widened slightly. "Jayce?"

He gave a small nod, barely perceptible.

You sat back a little, surprised—but only for a moment. Now that you thought about it, it made sense. The glances they exchanged across the ballroom. The subtle tension, the kind that only exists between people who've been orbiting each other for too long without ever colliding.

"Wow..." you breathed. "Didn't see that coming."

Viktor gave a rueful chuckle, though there was no humor in it. "It wouldn't have worked. It was never... mutual. Not the way I hoped. He's with Councilor Medarda now. Or, at the very least, they're becoming something."

You let out a low whistle, resting your chin against your palm again. "Medarda..." you said with a touch of awe. "Gods, she's gorgeous."

"I know." Viktor replied simply, and though his voice was soft, there was no jealousy there. Just acknowledgment. Like someone quietly accepting that the stars had aligned for someone else, not for him.

But you didn't like that sense of finality. Not entirely.

"You don't know what the future holds." you said, more gently this time. "And you don't know how he really feels about you. Maybe it's not over. Maybe the two of you get to live that cliché, you know, the one where the brilliant minds, best friends for years, suddenly realize it was love all along."

Viktor gave a skeptical hum, but you noticed how he didn't immediately shoot it down. He just stared at the contents of the box for a moment longer before he started taking things out of the medical kit inside. "I don't put much stock in clichés."

"Maybe not." you murmured. "But some of them exist for a reason."

Viktor didn't respond to your last comment. Not verbally, anyway. He simply rolled his eyes in that quiet, exasperated way and let out a short sigh, returning his focus to the task in front of him. He resumed organizing the tools on the table—syringes, vials, gauze, bottles—and you watched in silence as he moved with the same precision he applied to everything else.

He was methodical, almost surgical, in the way he handled the sterilization process. Each instrument cleaned, checked, set down on a fresh cloth in perfect order. There was a rhythm to it—careful, almost reverent. You found yourself quietly impressed, despite yourself. For someone who claimed medicine wasn't his field, he was far too comfortable with the tools of it. Part of you started to suspect that might've been a lie of convenience—or maybe just an old truth that had evolved with necessity.

You were lost in that thought when his voice broke the silence again—low and calm, as always. It took a second to register that he had asked something.

"Hm?" you blinked, turning your eyes back toward him. "What was that? Can you repeat it?"

He didn't look at you immediately—still adjusting a few needles into a tray. But his voice was clear. "The little girl you mentioned on the bridge... She's your daughter?"

There was no hesitation in your reply.

"Yes." you said, the word sharp with certainty. "But I have two. The other one is still with Silco."

The moment those words left your mouth, you felt the weight of them settle into the room like a cold draft. Viktor's entire demeanor shifted.

His hands stilled mid-motion. His brow furrowed, and for the first time since you'd walked into his apartment, he abandoned his careful rhythm. His eyes lifted to yours slowly, something deeper than curiosity flickering behind them—concern. Genuine. Immediate.

"Kidnapped?"

"No, he's her father."

You knew full well what that would imply—especially without context. That both girls were Silco's biological daughters. That you and Silco had once built a life, a family, together. And maybe, in some fractured, bloodstained way, you had. But you didn't correct Viktor. You didn't feel the need to clarify that truth. Let him assume what he wanted.

It was easier that way. Fewer explanations of the troubled relationship with Vander, Silco and the girls.

"When Violet is healed, I'm going to get Powder back and I'll take them both somewhere far from here. Far from him."

You could hear the strain in your own voice now—the tension sitting just beneath the surface like a dam about to break. You didn't want to think about how many times you'd played that plan over in your head, how many nights it had been the only thing keeping you from drowning.

Viktor didn't interrupt. He just watched you, those sharp amber eyes scanning every nuance of your expression like he was decoding something far more complex than an equation.

"Do you have contact with the girl? The one who's with Silco?"

You shook your head, bitter and resigned. "Not since I left Zaun."

The silence that followed stretched long and tense. Viktor hadn't moved. His gaze was still locked on you, but it had shifted—no longer analyzing, now... searching. Like you were a puzzle with one missing piece and he was trying to figure out where it belonged.

And then, without warning, something changed.

His expression sharpened. The gold in his eyes lit up—not metaphorically, literally, like a filament catching fire behind them. You recognized that look instantly. It was the look of a mind clicking into motion.

"I think... I know how to help you reunite with your daughter."

Part 26

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Our boy finally made his appearance! After all these setup chapters, he’s finally stepping into the plot. Keep in mind, this is Act 1 Viktor from Season 1—still "healthy", still sharp, and not yet drowning in existential dread. The Hextech is still in its research phase, so Jayce isn’t exactly the Golden Boy of Progress just yet. Also… what did you all think of Silco’s dream, huh? Next chapter comes with a special narration. Any guesses on who it’ll be?

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[nyxs2]

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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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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[nyxs2]

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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[nyxs2]

Hi so sorry to bother you but may I ask what are your thoughts on Vander, silco and benzo I'm naturally curious because these three scrumptious fine men deserve so much love and they were taken from us too soon all three of them need so much love that's my opinion on it I want to hear what your opinion is about them.

That’s such a great question!

Honestly, Vander and Silco are two of my absolute favorite characters in arcane. I love the tragic depth of their story—how they both started as revolutionaries fighting for the same cause, only for that cause to eventually tear them apart and lead to everything that went wrong in Zaun.

Silco, in particular, is one of those villains I truly love. He's incredibly well-written, and even though his actions are often terrible, you can still understand his motivations. There's something deeply human about him — especially when he begins to understand why Vander cared so much about the kids. Silco becomes a father too. He gives up what he most wanted in his entire life because the price was precisely his daughter (what a damn character development)

Vander, on the other hand, is like Zaun’s moral compass. He’s clearly a man with a violent past, with blood on his hands, but what makes him stand out is that he chose to change. I think he perfectly embodies that tough exterior that hides a deeply caring and protective nature. He knows when to be firm and when to show kindness. He’s made enough mistakes in life to understand what’s right and wrong, and that’s why he’s such a strong and respected protector of Zaun.

And then there's Benzo… we didn’t get to see much of him or his relationship with Ekko, but from what little we did see, he definitely fits that “gentle giant” archetype, just like Vander. He clearly protected and cared for the people he loved. I wish we had more backstory about him—like why he took Ekko in, and what kind of relationship he had with Silco and Vander in the past. (There’s even that artbook image of young Silco, Vander and Benzo together, which makes me think there’s more history there.) In the end, though, he stood by Vander’s side, and that says a lot.

These three characters are full of depth, and yes, they were taken from us far too soon. They deserved more love, more time, and definitely more spotlight in the story.

[nyxs2]

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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[nyxs2]

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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[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 19/?)

"You are the worst of all blessings and the beautiful of all cursеs. The best thing that ever happened to me, yet the worst mistake I never had the chance to undo. If I could go back to the day we met… maybe I’d pray for it to never come."

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 9,6K

Warnings: panic and anxiety attacks, Silco being a manipulator, emotional manipulation, betrayal and all the feelings that come with it, suicidal thoughts, blood and violence, self-deprecating thoughts, allusion to human experiments, threats with weapons, attempted murder, Silco POV

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

Part 18

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Singed was a brilliant mind.

Silco would be the first to admit it. The scientist's ingenuity was undeniable—his ability to twist the very laws of nature to suit his vision, to push beyond the constraints that lesser men cowered before. But just as his skill was unmatched, so too was his utter disregard for morality. That, Silco could appreciate. A man unburdened by conscience was a man who could achieve the impossible.

And yet, even he had been caught off guard by the Chemtanks.

It had been a revelation, seeing them in motion—hulking, chemically enhanced weapons of war, raw destruction given form. A promise of the power Silco had long envisioned, brought to life by Singed's meticulous, if unorthodox, hand. For a brief, tantalizing moment, it had seemed as if Zaun finally held a force that could rival Piltover's mechanical monstrosities.

But then came the inevitable disappointment.

In his attempt to replicate her ability, Singed had succeeded—if only in the most rudimentary sense. The Chemtanks could move as she did, could blink in and out of reach, vanishing and reappearing in bursts of violent momentum. But they lacked the one thing that made her truly dangerous: control.

They were mindless creatures with a singular purpose: destruction.

They obeyed without hesitation, tore through anything in their path, and let the power coursing through them exact its price—devouring them from the inside out. Five seconds. That was all Singed had managed to grant them before their bodies ruptured under the sheer force of the strain. But in those five seconds, they had left nothing but devastation in their wake.

It had been enough to surprise even Silco. Enough to make the other Barons pause, their usual arrogance tempered by the sheer violence of what they had just witnessed. These were not the failed prototypes that had lost all control, wild and unpredictable. These obeyed. These followed orders. These slaughtered their targets like unstoppable war machines—tanks given flesh, unyielding, relentless, immortal.

And five seconds, in the grand scheme of battle, was more than enough.

But if the Chemtanks, with no mind of their own, had already reached such heights—then her potential was something beyond comprehension.

Which was why the order had changed.

Silco could make use of a disposable army like the Chemtanks, yes, but they were a single-use weapon. Their power burned too hot, too fast. But she—she was something else entirely. She could be more than a one-man army, more than a perfect killing machine.

She thought. She adapted. She had this logic and strategy behind her attacks even though it seemed like she simply advanced without blinking. The unstoppable force of her ability was merely a tool—one she wielded at will. And in the right hands, she could be the most dangerous person Piltover had ever known.

All Singed had to do—or at least attempt—was to eliminate that damnable ten-second limit. Without that constraint, without the ever-looming risk of death hanging over her like a blade poised to strike, there would be nothing standing in her way.

At least, that was the current plan.

It was the thought turning over in Silco's mind as he returned to The Last Drop at the onset of the evening. The walk back had been uneventful—no disturbances, no signs of anything out of place. His men were where they were supposed to be, their postures relaxed but attentive. Even Sevika, usually brimming with her usual brand of skepticism, seemed at ease.

A routine night in Zaun.

Or so he thought—until he stepped into his office and saw something that made his blood run cold. There, embedded deep into the wooden surface of his desk, was his dagger.

The blade was buried to the hilt, piercing through a piece of parchment Silco recognized immediately. He knew that paper. He knew the weight of it, the texture of it, and most damning of all, he knew exactly who had felt it.

His jaw tightened as he reached for the dagger, yanking it free with a sharp motion before carefully unfolding the letter beneath it. His gauze scanned the words, his fingers tightened around the edges, and for a brief, violent moment, he considered storming into Singed's lab and wringing the old man's neck with his bare hands.

Of all the things Singed could have been sent, of all the times he could have chosen.

It didn't take a genius to figure out who had read the letter before he did.

Silco let out a slow, controlled breath through his nose, forcing down the white-hot frustration curling in his chest. He should have expected her to pry. She was too perceptive, too damnably curious for her own good. And normally, he would have accounted for that. Normally, he would have seen it coming.

But how in all the hells was he supposed to predict that this, of all things, would end up in her hands first? Singed only sent letters when it was absolutely necessary and that matter was not one of them. Silco had given an irrefutable order so there should be no room for dispute, but it seemed that the scientist thought otherwise.

Silco left his office in a rush, his footsteps sharp and purposeful as he strode back toward the bar. His patience was wearing thin, irritation slithering beneath his skin like a slow-burning fuse. Something was wrong—he could feel it, a gnawing unease that refused to settle.

"Where is she?" His voice came out as a low growl, rough and edged with something dangerously close to anger.

Sevika, who had been leaning lazily against the counter, barely lifted her gaze as she answered, though he didn't miss the slight narrowing of her eyes—her own instincts were on alert now.

"In her room." she answered, her voice even. "It hasn't even been half an hour since I saw her carrying Jinx."

That made him pause. Jinx? Here?

"Jinx is here?"

"Yeah." Sevika straightened slightly now, her casual posture shifting into something more alert. "The kid was passed out in her arms, so she took her to bed. No one has seen either of them leave. No chance they got past the men without being noticed." 

That should have been reassuring. Should have been.

But it wasn't.

The unease had already settled deep in his gut, cold and suffocating, long before Sevika had even finished speaking. Something was wrong. He knew it. He felt it. The kind of instinct that had kept him alive all these years, that had warned him before every betrayal, before every ambush.

And now, it was screaming at him.

He didn't waste another second. He was already moving, taking the stairs two at a time, his coat billowing behind him as his stride lengthened. He barely registered the heavy thud of Sevika's footsteps following close behind, barely noticed the guards stationed at their posts—silent, unbothered. No alarms had been raised. No signs of struggle.

That should have meant everything was fine.

And yet. Dread curled tighter in his chest, constricting like a vice as he reached the door. He didn't knock, the handle turned under his grip, the door swinging open in one fluid motion.

The room was dark. The dim glow of Zaun's neon lights filtered weakly through the curtains, casting fractured shadows across the walls. His gaze swept over the space, cataloging every detail. The furniture was undisturbed. No overturned chairs. No shattered glass. The air was still, untouched—wrong.

And then he saw her.

Not her, but Jinx.

She was curled up in the bed, deep in sleep, the steady rise and fall of her chest the only sign of life in the oppressive stillness.

But the bed was empty aside from her.

Silco stepped further in, slow. His heartbeat was a measured thing, controlled even as the tension in his body coiled impossibly tight. His mind worked quickly, too quickly—scenarios and explanations fighting for dominance, each one dismissed as fast as it came.

His eyes landed on the small form curled beneath the blankets, deep in sleep, her breathing slow and even. Jinx. She had been tucked in carefully, the sheets drawn over her with care, as if someone had taken the time to ensure she would not stir, would not wake too soon.

That meant she had been here.

She had laid Jinx down. She had smoothed the sheets. She had lingered long enough to be certain. And then, she had left.

Silco's jaw tensed, his fingers curling into a slow, measured fist at his side. It wasn't panic—not yet. It was something worse. The cold, sinking weight of realization as the pieces of the puzzle began to shift and fall into place. The air in the room felt thicker now, laced with something unseen, something wrong.

Behind him, heavy boots scraped against the floorboards, and Sevika stepped into the doorway, her presence a solid, grounding force. Her voice was low, laced with something close to doubt—but not quite.

"She wouldn't just leave."

No. She wouldn't but the space where she should have been was empty.

Silco barely had time to process the thought before the hurried slap of boots echoed from the corridor outside, fast, desperate. He turned, already sharp, already expecting the worst, as a familiar red-haired man skidded into view, breathless and wide-eyed. There was no mistaking the look on his face—sheer, unfiltered despair.

"Boss—" His chest rose and fell sharply, but he barely took a breath before forcing the words out, voice taut with something close to panic. "We found a body. Back exit... one of ours. Dead."

A slow, seething rage curled deep in Silco's chest, pooling there like a well of tar, thick and suffocating. His expression didn't shift, didn't crack—not outwardly.

"How?" His voice was quiet. Deceptively calm. But the weight behind it was anything but.

The man swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he fought to steady himself. "Head smashed against the wall. Blood everywhere. And the other one? Thrown a few meters, alive, but out cold. No one saw a damn thing."

A silence stretched between them, heavy, suffocating. Sevika exhaled sharply, something between a curse and a growl, but Silco simply narrowed his gaze, there was only one answer. One inevitable, inescapable conclusion.

"Singed."

The name left his lips like a final verdict, sharp as the edge of a knife scraping against stone. Sevika didn't ask. She didn't need to. She already knew. And the realization was written across her face as her expression darkened.

"Then she knows."

"Of course, she does."

Sevika straightened, already shifting, already preparing. "I'll gather the men."

"No."

The word came quick, firm, final. He didn't need to raise his voice for it to carry weight—it settled into the air like a gavel striking wood, irrefutable, absolute.

"Wouldn't matter anyway," Silco continued, his tone measured but edged with something unmistakably lethal. "She'd cut through them before they even reached her."

Sevika hesitated. Just for a second. Just long enough for doubt to flicker across her features before she exhaled sharply, nodding once, begrudgingly accepting the truth they both knew.

"Then what do we do?"

Silco turned back toward the open doorway, not wanting to disturb Jinx's sleep any longer. He already knew how this would end if he let it spiral out of control. There was no time to strategize, no time to send men who would only slow things down, who would only make things worse. There was only one course of action left.

"We go after her ourselves."

A beat of silence. Then—

"You've gone fucking mad, Silco."

Sevika's voice was low, but every word was laced with steel. Not defiance. Not quite. But close.

She stepped forward, her presence looming, her broad frame blocking part of the dim light spilling from the hallway. "Going after her alone? After what she did to the guard?" She gestured sharply toward the door, her meaning unmistakable. "She's a goddamn storm waiting to tear through anything in her path. We have to make her reach her limit, then we contain her."

Silco's patience thinned. "No."

The single word sliced through the air like a knife, sharp, unyielding. His fingers twitched at his side, a restless movement barely restrained. "I won't risk killing her for this."

Sevika's nostrils flared. "And why the hell not? You saw what she did. She's not thinking straight—"

"And neither are you if you think I'm letting anyone put a bullet in her head."

His voice was dangerously low now, measured, controlled—but Sevika knew better than to mistake that for restraint. A muscle in her jaw twitched. Her lips curled into something close to a snarl.

"Then it'll be you she kills next."

"She won't."

The certainty in his voice was unwavering. A conviction built not on logic, not on reason, but on something far more dangerous—belief. Sevika stared at him like he was already dead.

The tension coiled like a live wire, snapping and sparking in the silence between them. The subordinate questioning the big boss's orders, if it had been anyone else, would have been dead by then, but Silco's right-hand man, despite being a faithful dog, knew when his boss was doing questionable things. And this was definitely one of those things.

"How the fuck do you know that, Silco?"

She stepped closer, towering over him, her broad shoulders squared with the kind of rigid defiance that only surfaced when she was preparing to say something he wouldn't want to hear. Silco didn't move, didn't so much as blink, but he felt the shift in her—felt the weight of her frustration, her disbelief, pressing against him like a physical force.

"I get it. You trust her. You think she wouldn't turn on you. But trust won't stop her if she's too far gone."

Her words hung between them, thick and suffocating. The implication clear. The accusation unspoken but ringing in the air nonetheless. Silco's expression remained impassive, unreadable, but there was a shift—something subtle, something dangerous. A flicker of something sharp and unyielding in his eyes.

"She's not gone."

"She threw a man's skull against a wall like it was nothing."

"He was in her way."

Sevika's lips pressed into a thin line, her patience thinning. "And what if you're next?"

Her tone hardened now, more forceful, pressing him, pushing against the walls of whatever belief he was clinging to. 

"What if she doesn't stop? What if she doesn't even realize it's you until it's too late?"

The words should have unsettled him. Maybe, deep down, they did. But fear had never been something Silco allowed himself to entertain. Instead, he exhaled slowly, deliberately, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made even her pause.

"Then I'll make her see me."

There was no hesitation in his voice. No wavering. No doubt. Just the weight of absolute certainty. Silco let the silence stretch between them. And when he finally spoke again, his voice was lower, measured, but no less commanding.

"Now, I think it's better for you to follow my orders instead of questioning them."

Sevika held his gaze for a long moment, jaw tight, tension radiating from her like a storm barely held at bay. She wasn't convinced. Not entirely. But even reluctantly, she nodded.

That would have to be enough.

Silco turned away, already turning to head down the corridor towards Singed's laboratory. There was no time to waste knowing what she could do. This was a problem—his problem. One that needed to be solved before it spiraled further out of control. And the worst part? He had no idea if he could.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

You stared at your own reflection in the shard of glass lying amidst the wreckage of the laboratory you had just torn apart in a violent wave of fury. The sharp edges caught the dim light, fractured pieces of a shattered world, and within them, your own gaze burned back at you—those unnatural violet irises, alive with something unholy, something that should not exist yet thrived within you, searing through your veins like a brand.

Everything still felt the same. The ever-present tingling in your eyes. The way the world seemed to sharpen at the edges, details unraveling before you with piercing clarity. Every fiber of your body was hypersensitive, attuned to the slightest shift in the air, the faintest crackle of electricity running through exposed wires in the ruined room. And yet... there was something else. A shift. A raw, untamed force humming beneath your skin, stronger, more refined—evolved.

The realization barely settled before your knees buckled.

You stumbled, reaching blindly for something—anything—to anchor yourself. A nearby table caught your weight just in time, though the impact sent scattered papers skidding across the surface. Your breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, the burn at the back of your throat morphing into something wet. Then, the first drop.

Scarlet against white.

You exhaled sharply, and more followed. Blood dripped from your nose, staining the documents beneath your fingers, blooming into irregular patterns against the stark pages. A cough tore through you, dry and brutal, and this time, crimson splattered across the surface, each droplet a damning reminder of what was happening inside you.

Then, as suddenly as it had surged, the power drained from your body.

Like water slipping through your fingers, it abandoned you, leaving nothing but hollow exhaustion in its wake. Your limbs trembled, the unbearable intensity that had just consumed you now reduced to an aching void. The edges of your vision blurred, the weight of your own body becoming foreign, distant.

Five seconds. You only needed five seconds. Five seconds to unleash the kind of destruction that would have made even God turn away in disgust. Five seconds to nearly kill Singed in the process.

You hadn't been thinking. Not in any coherent sense, at least. Your rage had swallowed you whole, the pain twisting inside you like something alive, something desperate for release. And you had indulged it, let it consume you until all you could do was lash out, tear apart everything in your path.

By the time you fled The Last Drop, you were already beyond reason, past the point of rational thought. The world around you was a blur of color and movement, your breath ragged in your lungs, your hands slick with something warm, something wet. Blood. Yours? Theirs? You didn't care. Someone had tried to stop you. Someone had died for it. And yet, it didn't matter. Not now.

The only thing that mattered was getting into that lab.

Singed didn't even flinch when you charged. Didn't recoil, didn't try to run. Maybe he had been expecting you. Maybe he had already come to terms with this inevitable moment. But none of that mattered, because the second your hands found him, all thought was drowned beneath the rush of unrelenting, violent rage.

You threw him across the room like he was nothing more than a ragdoll. Glass shattered on impact, vials of unknown liquid spilling onto the floor, hissing where they met other, less stable substances. The air thickened with the acrid scent of chemicals, sharp and burning. The carefully curated chaos of this place had finally dissolved into something purely destructive.

You hadn't cared—hadn't wanted to care. Not until the last possible second, when the red haze of fury has receded just enough for you to wrench yourself back from the edge.

Instead of snapping his neck, you had thrown him.

Now Singed lay slumped against the cold stone wall, his body limp, a dark stain spreading across the front of his coat where the deep gash in his abdomen wept crimson. Blood dripped from his fingers, pooling on the floor, soaking into the fabric of his tattered garments. Yet, despite the mortal wound, he made no sound. No groans of pain, no curses, no desperate pleas for mercy.

Because he had known.

When you had demanded the truth after you threw him into that corner—had spit your accusations at him, voice raw, hands trembling—he had simply confirmed your worst fears. No hesitation, no attempt to twist the narrative in his favor. Just a quiet, damning admission. He had accepted the attack the same way he had accepted everything else in his wretched existence: as if it were nothing more than another inevitable step in a predetermined sequence of events. As if he had welcomed it.

And maybe he had.

Maybe, somewhere in the depths of that fractured, inhuman mind, that was what he wanted. Or maybe he just didn't care.

You wanted to believe there was some grander scheme at play—some hidden angle that you hadn't yet uncovered, some intricate web of deception woven beneath the surface. But as you stood there, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps, hands slick with blood that was not entirely your own, you realized something far worse.

There was no plan. No careful manipulation, no convenient lie to cling to just the unrelenting, inescapable truth. And it was staring back at you, etched in every bloodstained page scattered across the table, your own crimson spilling over them like an offering.

Reports. About you.

Meticulously detailed, clinical, damning.

Singed had handed them over without resistance, as if your discovery had never been in question. As if you were always meant to find them. Pages upon pages detailing the mutations in your system—meticulously recorded, analyzed, broken down into cold, sterile observations. Singed had been studying you, dissecting you in a way that went far beyond flesh and bone. He had been trying to replicate you, or what is running through your veins. To implement whatever he had discovered in your blood into the prototype of a new shimmer strain. The one Silco had ordered him to create.

A plan years in the making. One that had finally come to fruition the moment he found you.

The moment Silco made you his.

Each line of text felt like a blade carving into you, methodical and merciless. Silco had used you. Silco had injected shimmer into your body without your knowledge. Silco had let Singed experiment on your blood, dissect it, manipulate it, twist it into something unnatural.

Silco had done exactly what your old master had done.

Your breath came shallow and ragged. A cold, sick feeling coiled in the pit of your stomach, wrapping around your ribs like a vice. The weight of the realization settled over you, suffocating, crushing. Tears spilled onto the pages, darkening the ink, smudging the clinical handwriting that reduced you to nothing more than a subject—a specimen.

A means to an end.

You could feel yourself bleeding from every part of you. Not just from the recoil, not just from the shards of glass that littered the floor around you, but from something far deeper. Your heart was bleeding. Torn open, gutted by the weight of betrayal, of realization, of the undeniable truth staring you in the face.

You wanted to die just to make it stop.

The buzzing in your ears was deafening, drowning out everything but the furious, erratic pounding of your heart against your ribs. Too fast. Too hard. As if it might break free from your chest entirely. You tried to breathe, to steady yourself, but every gasp felt like a knife plunging deeper, twisting cruelly with each failed attempt to contain the storm raging inside you.

Your body has given up on supporting your weight.

You crashed to the floor, hands clutching at your chest, nails digging into your skin as if you could reach inside and tear the pain out by force. It hurt. Gods, it hurt. Like a bullet lodged deep in your heart, pulsing with every beat, refusing to let you forget it was there. Refusing to let you escape it.

You wished you couldn't feel it anymore.

You wished you couldn't feel anything at all.

The pain was unbearable. A raw, festering wound inside you, growing deeper with every second that passed. Your breath hitched, throat constricting as you fought against the wave of nausea crawling up your spine, your mind was unraveling, burning through every moment, every touch, every whispered word from him, searching for signs, for warnings, for the moment you should have known.

But through the haze of agony, your gaze fell upon Singed, He simply watched you with that same detached curiosity, as if he were observing a subject in an experiment, documenting your pain with quiet precision.

Your voice was hoarse when it finally came.

You swallowed once, twice, but your throat remained dry, raw from the scream that had never come. When you finally spoke, your voice was hoarse, stripped down to its barest, most fragile form.

"When?"

Singed blinked, as if weighing the significance of the question. As if, somehow, he hadn't expected you to ask it. But when he spoke, there was no hesitation, no inflection of regret. Just the same eerie calm that always lingered in his voice, even as blood pooled beneath him, seeping into the cracks of the cold stone floor.

"Months ago." he answered. "The night you were taken."

Your lips parted, but no sound came. The world around you shrank, muffled, as if submerged underwater. The dim light of Singed's lab flickered against the glass containers — more precisely the shards of them, their eerie glow casting warped reflections in your peripheral vision. But you couldn't focus on any of it. You could only look at him.

"The night I was—"

The words faltered, barely making it past your lips. But Singed, ever the scientist, ever the surgeon of brutal truths, filled in the gap without pause.

"The night you nearly died."

There was no malice in his tone. No judgment. No pity. Just cold, clinical precision. "That was the first time Shimmer was introduced into your system."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Your pulse pounded in your ears, a deep, rhythmic thrum, like distant war drums signaling an inevitable end.

And then—

"Silco's orders."

It was that final nail, that final twist of the knife, that shattered something inside you.

You had thought—No. You knew Silco was ruthless. You knew his cruelty, his willingness to sacrifice, to bleed the world dry if it meant securing what he wanted. You know that he makes choices that others wouldn't, choices that demanded suffering for the sake of survival. You had known all of this. But you hadn't thought you were just another choice.

Just another body to be carved open and experimented on.

The weight of it pressed against your ribs, clawing at your skin from the inside out, something thick and unbearable. A betrayal so sharp, so utterly suffocating, that for a moment, it didn't even feel real.

You had trusted him.

More than that—you had belonged to him, in a way you could never quite name. Had followed him through blood and fire, through the darkness of his ambitions and his accursed sins. You had been willing to be molded into something more, something greater, because he had promised you were more than just another pawn in his game. Not a monster passed from one owner to another.

And yet...

Something inside you cracked.

But this time, it wasn't violent. It wasn't fire and fury, wasn't an eruption of rage that demanded to be felt, to be heard. No, this was something quieter. Something colder. More insidious. It seeped into you like a slow-moving toxin, curling through your veins, settling deep in your bones. A hollow, sinking weight that dragged you down, down, down into something you couldn't yet name. Not grief. Not yet. But close.

That night—the one you'd thought would be your last. The one where your body had been broken, where your vision had blurred at the edges, where each breath had been an agony, a fight you weren't sure you wanted to win.

You had been dying. You had felt it. You literally saw death —the sheep pointed its arrow at you and you still remembered what it felt like... to have accepted a fate that did not come. And Silco? He hadn't saved you. He had refused to let you die.

The difference was damning.

A shaky breath left your lips—something caught between a laugh and a sob. Maybe both. Maybe neither. You weren't sure. It didn't matter. Your body felt foreign, distant, like it didn't belong to you anymore. Like it hadn't belonged to you for a long time.

Your eyes lifted as if seeing the world for the first time in its rawest, ugliest truth. The war beneath your skin still raged—anger, sorrow, something deeper, something raw—but when you spoke, your voice was eerily calm.

"Of course." you whispered. "Of course, he did."

You wanted to cry more, but your eyes were already burning, raw from exhaustion, from the weight of realization pressing against your skull like an iron vice. Maybe you wanted to scream, but even if you tried, nothing would leave your throat except a strangled, broken sound.

And why shouldn't you feel this way? This was your fault, wasn't it?

In the end, you were the one who let yourself believe in the fairy tale Silco spun just for you, so intricately woven, so perfectly designed to trap you. You had walked into his web willingly, a foolish little fly tangled in silk, only to lose yourself—your body, your mind, your very soul—to something far greater, far crueler. You should have known.

Look at what he's done to you.

He made you complacent. Tamed you. He softened the edges of your rage, buried your claws beneath velvet, twisted your thoughts until the impossible became truth. He made you love him.

Love.

You would have laughed if there was even a sliver of strength left in you for such pathetic self-mockery.

A noble thing. A foolish thing. A double-edged blade meant only to carve out your insides, to gut you with hollow promises and fleeting illusions of happiness. It was never meant for you. So why? Why do you keep reaching for it? How many betrayals? How many losses will it take before you finally understand that you are not meant to love, nor to be loved in return? That whatever you touch, whatever you care for—whatever fragile, precious thing you give to claim—would be taken.

It would be destroyed.

Would end.

It was an unbreakable cycle — your fate, your curse — You should have known better. You did know better and yet, you still let yourself hope.

How foolish.

You lay there for what felt like an eternity, sinking deeper into the abyss of your own ruin. The cold, unforgiving floor of the shattered laboratory was your only anchor to reality, its surface slick with spilled chemicals and littered with jagged shards of glass that bit into your skin. Tiny cuts burned along your arms, your legs—but the sting was nothing compared to the agony festering inside you.

Pain, at least, should have been grounded. But even that had abandoned you.

The air was thicker than before now, saturated with the acrid stench of chemicals, sharp and cloying in the back of your throat. Something burned in the distance, the faint scent of charred metal and singed cloth curling through the chaos, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. Let it all burn. Let the flames consume what little remained.

Your body felt heavy, drained, as if whatever fire had once burned inside you had finally flickered out. There was nothing left to fight with. Nothing left to hold onto.

Then—sound.

Faint at first, distant echoes beyond the laboratory, but growing closer.

Footsteps.

Someone was coming. Someone you knew who you were, someone who would always find you.

You finally pushed yourself up from the floor, your limbs sluggish, your body aching like a marionette with its strings half-severed. The room swayed around you, but you forced yourself forward, each step dragging you toward the weapon that had been discarded in the chaos—flung into the corner in your violent outburst, slick with someone else's blood. The person you killed before you got here.

Your fingers wrapped around the cold metal, trembling but steady enough as you pulled it to your chest. The sharp, mechanical click of the gun being cocked cut through the silence. Then, with slow steps, you turned to face Singed.

The scientist did not flinch.

He barely even blinked as you lifted the pistol, leveling it at his skull. The dim, flickering lights cast cruel shadows over his gaunt features, but his expression remained eerily neutral.

Your finger brushed the trigger.

But the gun jammed. 

The shot that should have killed Singed never happening. But before you thought about trying to pull the trigger again, just as you expected, the heavy metal doors burst open behind you, rattling on their hinges, the impact shaking through the very air.

You didn't turn around. You didn't need to.

You knew him by his footsteps—sharp, purposeful, each one striking the floor like the countdown of a detonator. You knew him by his breath—ragged, uneven, the telltale sign of a man who had run, who had raced to get here. And, most of all, you knew him by the weight of his gaze—burning into your back, searing through layers of flesh and bone like a brand, demanding, unrelenting.

"Put it down." His voice was rough, hoarse. It wasn't a request. It wasn't even an order. It was a warning.

Slowly, excruciatingly, you exhaled. "No."

"Now." he repeated the order. "Don't make me ask twice."

Your grip on the pistol tightened, the metal digging into your palm. "You knew." The words tumbled past your lips, raw and venomous, barely above a whisper, but they rang louder than any gunshot. "You knew what he was doing and you let it happen."

A pause.

"I did."

You swallowed, bile rising in your throat, burning like acid. If there was anything close to regret in Silco's voice, it was buried beneath layers of cold resolve. But if anger wasn't twisting his gut the way it twisted yours, you might've thought he sounded... tired. Worn thin. Almost defeated.

"You used me..."

Silco barely blinked. "I did what I had to do."

A bitter laugh clawed its way out of your throat, hollow and empty. "Of course you did, Silco."

He stepped forward, slow and measured. "Put the gun down, dove."

You shook your head, jaw clenched so tightly that a dull ache spread through it. "Why should I?"

"Because you don't want to do this."

Your breath came sharp and shallow. You finally turned your head, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. Your eyes met his—fire against ice, raw pain against that infuriating, unshaken calm.

"Don't tell me what I want, Silco."

Another step. "Then pull the trigger."

Your breath hitched. A flicker of confusion, a slight hesitation—he wasn't supposed to say that. But you knew him well enough to recognize when he was making his next move.

"Go on." his voice deceptively soft. "Shoot him. Spill his blood. But if you do, understand that you're choosing something you can't take back."

His words slithered through the cracks in your resolve, wrapping around your throat, tightening. You would have made that choice if the damn gun hadn't jammed, but Silco didn't know that and didn't need to.

You gritted your teeth. "What does it matter? Isn't that what you wanted? Me, broken beyond repair?"

His expression darkened, something unreadable flickering behind the orange and blue of his gaze. "I never wanted that."

"You never cared if it happened either."

A long, slow inhale. Silco dragged a hand down his face before pinching the bridge of his nose, exhaling through his teeth. "Dove..."

Your grip on the gun tightened, knuckles white. You turned back to Singed, pressing your finger against the trigger again, with the certainty that the shot would come out. But your hands weren't steady. Not like they were before — a flicker of doubt. A hesitation — And then, finally, you turned completely to Silco.

Silco stood just a few steps away, his mismatched gaze locked onto yours with an unreadable intensity, his expression carved from stone. But it wasn't him that caught your attention. Not at first. Out of the corner of your eye, in the dim glow of the laboratory's dying lights, you saw her.

Sevika.

She was standing near the far wall, arms tense, eyes sharp and calculating, a predator waiting for the moment her leash snapped. Her stance was wide, grounded, her cybernetic arm twitching slightly in anticipation—like she was just waiting for the order, waiting for the signal to strike you down the second you made the wrong move.

Your lips parted slightly, but you didn't speak.

For a single breath, you thought about what would happen if you pulled if the previous shot had worked. If you emptied the clip into Singed's skull, watching his lifeless body crumple to the ground in a heap of flesh and failed experiments.

It would be so easy, but it wouldn't change anything. Because the real problem wasn't Singed.

Your fingers curled tighter around the gun as realization sank in like a dagger between your ribs. Singed was just a tool. A cog in a machine. A machine that Silco built. He had let it happen. None of it would have happened without his approval. Singed had been interested in you, yes, fascinated even, but he wouldn't have touched you without Silco's permission.

He gave the order.

Silco was the root of all of it.

Your breath steadied, shoulders squaring as a new, colder kind of resolve settled into your bones.

"The two of them. Out."

Silco blinked once. Sevika didn't move. The tension in the room coiled tighter, suffocating. She was waiting for confirmation. Waiting for Silco to overrule your command. Your eyes locked onto his. 

"Now!"

For a long, excruciating moment, he said nothing. Just regarded you in that quiet, studying way of his, as if trying to map out every thought spiraling through your head. Then, finally—

"Do as she says."

That was all it took.

Sevika let out a breath through her nose, barely more than a huff, but she obeyed, stepping toward Singed. Her metal fingers clamped around his shoulder, pulling him away from the room without ceremony. The scientist didn't resist, didn't argue. He merely cast you a lingering glance, something strange and unreadable in his gaze, before allowing himself to be led out.

The heavy metal door groaned shut behind them.

And then—

It was just you and Silco.

Your fingers curled around the pistol, but you didn't lift it again. It would've been pointless. Silco stood there, unshaken, composed in a way that made your blood boil. He had the audacity to look at you with that same knowing expression, that same unreadable calm.

And it made you sick.

"When you touched me." your voice was hoarse, breathless, barely held together. "When you kissed me... when we fucked." Your throat tightened. "Did you feel even a shred of remorse?"

"No."

The answer landed like a blade between your ribs, so sharp in its purpose that you nearly recoiled from the sheer truth of it. No hesitation. No doubt. No guilt.

You inhaled sharply through your nose, fingers tightening against the smooth grip of the pistol. You should've expected it. You knew the answer before you even asked, but hearing it spoken aloud felt like a final nail being driven into a coffin you hadn't realized it was already sealed. Your lips parted again, the words clawing their way out of your throat. 

"So, in the beginning... that obsession." Your voice wavered, but you forced it out. "It was because you found the last missing piece of your plan, wasn't it?"

For a moment, Silco didn't respond. His one good eye traced your face, as if weighing something heavy. Then, he exhaled softly, tilting his head just enough to let his gaze darken.

"Would you believe me if I said no?"

You didn't respond. Didn't dare to. Because the truth was there—unsaid, unspoken, but lingering between you like a phantom neither of you could ignore.

"Of course it was," Silco continued, voice smooth as velvet, as if he were merely stating a fact rather than admitting to something monstrous. "I would be a fool to intend otherwise. When I finally found you, I had no intention of letting it slip away again. You were something I wanted, something I needed for the greater good. You still are."

Your stomach twisted.

His lips curled, just slightly. "And tell me, dove..." he took a slow step forward, voice lowering into something almost gentle. "If I had told you the truth back then, would it have changed anything?"

Would it? Would you have left? Would you have fought harder to resist him? Or would you have fallen just the same?

You gripped the gun tighter, your knuckles aching with the pressure, but your hand didn't waver. The weight of it felt like an extension of your own rage, your own grief, and yet—Silco stood there, composed, as if the world wasn't crumbling between you.

As if this wasn't the moment where everything finally broke.

"I would never have believed you." you growled, venom dripping from every word. "I would never have let you near me... I would never have hesitated to kill you... I would never have fallen in love!"

The silence that stretched between you was suffocating, thick with the weight of all the things you could no longer take back. Your words still echoed in the air, lingering like a wound freshly opened: I would never have fallen in love. And for the first time in this wretched, sick game you had played with him, Silco actually looked... surprised. Just for a flicker of a second—just long enough for you to catch it before it was gone, buried beneath the careful mask he always wore.

The pain of betrayal coiled inside you like a viper, lashing out with every second you locked eyes with him—those damn irises, the first thing you saw when you woke up, the last thing you saw before sleep. How many nights had you stared into them, finding warmth in their depths? How many times had you been fool enough to think they held something real?

"You weren’t so wise after all."

Your voice was somewhere between hysteria and hatred. Your entire body trembled, not with fear, but with unrestrained, undiluted rage. It radiated off you in waves, suffocating, burning. Your nails dug into your palms, blunt crescents marking your skin, but you barely registered the pain.

"Because you’ve lost. Do you hear me? Lost!" The word ripped from your throat, cracking under the weight of it. "You lost your most important piece from your damn board! You were so sure, so convinced that you had it all under control. But you forgot, Silco. You forgot how close hate is to love!”

You wanted to see him break. Wanted to see some evidence—any evidence—that this meant something to him, that the foundation of carefully woven lies he had spun around you was finally crumbling. But Silco didn’t flinch. He never did. His expression remained steady, unreadable, his body poised like a man who had fought too many battles to fear another. The dim glow of the lab lamps caught the sharp planes of his face, making the shadows under his eyes look deeper, more hollow.

"You don’t know what you’re saying, dove.” he murmured, voice quiet, almost gentle, but there was steel beneath it. A warning. A refusal.

A bitter laugh tore from your throat, sharp and humorless, the sound of something breaking apart. “Oh, I know exactly what I’m saying.” Your chest ached, the weight of realization pressing down on you like a vice. “You never loved me.”

The words stung even as you said them, as if speaking them aloud was some kind of irreversible act, the final, devastating confirmation of what you had been trying so hard not to believe. You had wanted to be wrong. Had begged to be wrong.

But you weren’t.

"You knew that I loved you, and you used that. You let me believe you cared, let me trust you, while all along—” You swallowed hard, the taste of bile sharp in your throat. “While all along, you were bleeding me dry!”

Silco's expression shifted, the patience in his features cracking at the edges, darkening into something harsher, something frayed. His jaw tightened, his fingers flexing at his side. As if you were saying something unthinkable. As if you were the one betraying him.

"Stop talking nonsense!" he snapped, his voice sharp and seething, cutting through the air like a blade. "We’re playing for lives now!”

You inhaled sharply, your heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to escape your chest.

"Yes.." you whispered, your voice suddenly eerily calm, a stark contrast to the storm that had been raging just moments ago. "We are, aren’t we?"

Silence.

Heavy. Unrelenting.

The space between you stretched, filled with everything unsaid, with everything that could never be taken back. And for the first time since this confrontation began, you saw it. Something flickered in Silco’s gaze—too fast to name, too brief to hold onto.

But it was there and it wasn’t victory.

That damned silence remained.

The kind that made your pulse thunder in your ears, that made the air feel electric with the tension hanging between you both. Slowly, you lifted the gun again, just enough to remind him it was there now aimed at him. Your voice was quiet now, calm in a way that felt ice through your own veins. 

"I'd advise you to be careful what you say."

Silco exhaled through his nose, his lips twitching ever so slightly—not quite a smile, not quite amusement, but something in between.

"Well..." he mused, tilting his head ever so slightly, "Rather melodramatic, aren't you?"

You said nothing, fingers tightening around the pistol.

Silco's good eye flickered to it for just a moment before returning to yours, as if assessing his odds. Then, as if the entire situation were nothing more than a casual business meeting, he reached into his pocket, retrieving a cigar. "Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked, tone almost conversational.

"Smoke?"

Silco nodded, already slipping a cigar between his fingers. "I always smoke in a negotiation." He flicked open the lighter with practiced ease, the small flame illuminating its sharp features in the dim light. "Somehow, it enhances the performance."

Cigar smoke curled through the stale air, thick and suffocating, the scent of tobacco clinging to every surface, seeping into the very walls of this forsaken place. It was a smell so achingly familiar, one that once wrapped around you like a second skin, a constant presence woven into the very fabric of your life.

Now, it was unbearable.

The scent twisted something inside you, coiling tight in your chest, pressing against your ribs with a cruel sort of pressure. It wasn't just smoke—it was memory. A thousand moments crystallized into something intangible yet suffocating. The way it used to linger on his clothes, on his hands, on his breath when he whispered in your ear. The way it used to settle into your skin after long nights tangled in sheets, in plans, in something that felt like belonging.

Now, it only burned.

Your throat constricted, the acrid sting making your eyes water—not from the smoke, but from the cruel irony of it all. How something so trivial, so Silco, could feel like a knife twisting between your ribs.

"You can do anything you please, Silco," your voice was sharp as the steel in your grip. "But you have very little time to do it in."

His expression didn't change. If anything, he looked bored.

"You mean you're actually going to kill me?" His voice was smooth, composed, as if this were nothing more than an inconvenience.

"I mean just that."

"Well, go ahead."

"I'll do this my own way."

 "You won't do it." Silco let out a breath, tilting his head just so. "You can’t pull the trigger. You can’t pull it because you love me."

The certainty in his voice made something in you snap. A desire to tear away that certainty from his words even though deep down you knew he was slightly right.

"It takes a very brave and a very cold woman to do that and I don't think you can." His eye bores into you, challenging, stripping you bare. "Isn't that true? Isn't that why you're waiting?"

"That's not true."

"Or..." he stepping closer, ignoring your words as he continued to drag from his cigar. "Is it that you want to watch your victim? You want my heart to constrict with agony, my hands to shake. You want me to plead for my life so you can make a generous gesture and spare me?"

His smile was razor-sharp, knowing.

"Sorry, dove." he murmured, extinguishing the cigar, or what was left of it, with the sole of the his boot. "I don't seem to be in the mood for prayers tonight."

Your jaw clenched so tightly it ached, the pressure radiating down your neck, into your shoulders, locking your entire body into place. It was the only thing grounding you, the only thing keeping you from unraveling completely beneath the weight of the truth pressing into your skull like a vice.

"You don’t think I’ll do it." the words left your lips quieter this time, but the venom within them remained. Lethal. Certain. "That’s why you’re so brave."

Silco’s smile didn’t waver—not entirely. It remained in place, a thin, practiced curve, carefully controlled. But there was something underneath it now, something raw and bleeding at the edges. A flicker of something deeper. Sharper. Perhaps even—hurt.

It was almost laughable. Hurt? As if he had the right. As if he could even begin to compare his wounds to yours. But maybe that was the cruelest part of all. That for everything he had done, for all the lies, the deception, the slow poisoning of your trust—there was still something broken in him. Just like you.

You wanted something—anything—to distract from the ache blooming in your chest, from the way your stomach twisted violently with betrayal.

"You’re a coward at heart, Silco."

You spat the words out like a curse, watching as his eyes flickered, as his jaw tensed just slightly, just enough for you to know that they had hit their mark.

"You lied to me. You deceived me."

It wasn’t just anger—it was grief. A slow, agonizing mourning for something you had never truly had. The illusion of safety, of loyalty, of trust. A cruel fantasy spun in whispers and reassurances, only to be torn apart at the seams, leaving nothing but jagged edges behind.

"You tried to kill me."

Silco’s response came effortlessly, the same unshaken calm that always preceded a storm.

"I should have killed you!"

The words ripped from your throat, raw and violent, burning with fury and something dangerously close to sorrow. They came out too fast, too sharp, slicing through the air between you, and for a brief moment, the room felt too small, too suffocating.

And then he stepped forward.

You let him.

Too late, you realized how his expression had softened, how the sharp edges of his usual smirk had smoothed into something else. Pity? No. Silco didn't waste his time on sentimentality like that. But there was understanding there. A recognition of something deeper, something broken. Perhaps, for the first time, he truly saw how ruined you were—how the fire of your anger was nothing more than a mask, a smokescreen for the hollow ache that festered beneath.

"You gave me your heart," his voice was quiet now, measured. "And you'd like me to hand it back whole again. But I won't... I am selfish." he admitted, tilting his chin slightly as if daring you to deny it. "I have no regrets about the choices I've made so far... about the choices I made in relation to you."

The pause.

"And I never will."

Your hand didn't waver. The weight of the gun was steady in your grasp, the metal cool against your skin, but inside, something burned. The heat of betrayal, of anger, of something far more dangerous—a longing that should have died the moment you learned the truth. And yet...

Silco moved.

Not to disarm you, not to reach for the weapon or sway your aim, but to touch you.

Fingers brushed along your jaw, the gloved leather a stark contrast against your fevered skin. You should have pulled away. Should have flinched, spat at his touch, but you stood there, frozen in place, as if his hand alone had rooted you to the spot. It was as if he truly didn't care if you pulled the trigger. If you ended this here.

"I never lied to you." His voice was low, intimate. "I omitted things, yes. But I never lied."

A bitter laugh threatened to rise in your throat. "That's the same damn thing, Silco."

"No." His thumb grazed your cheekbone, deceptively gentle, as if you weren't seconds away from painting the walls with his blood. "A lie is meant to mislead. I only ever kept what was necessary from you. For something greater."

You rolled your eyes —that shit again. "Something greater? Like what?"

"You."

Silence stretched between you, thick as smoke.

"You put shimmer in my body." The words came out flat, but they carried a tremor, a ghost of disbelief despite everything you had already come to understand. "You did this to me."

"Yes." No hesitation. No denial. "I was the one who administered the doses." he continued, his voice unwavering. "I was the one who sat beside your bed while you lay comatose. I ensured it took root in you, wove itself into your veins, strengthened you—"

"Poisoned me." Your grip on the gun tightened, your finger ghosting over the trigger. "You—"

"Kept you alive." His fingers curled under your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. "And I would do it again."

Your breath hitched.

"I had no intention of losing you."

There was no regret in his voice. No hesitation in his admission. Your pulse pounded in your ears. You should shoot him. You should. 

Silco's touch was a poison of its own—one you knew you should reject, but your body betrayed you. You should have pushed him away, recoiled from his hands as they moved against your skin with that same infuriating tenderness he had no right to wield.

But you didn't.

You let him touch you.

It was a cruel indulgence, to allow yourself this moment of false softness in the wake of everything. A sin carved from old habits, from something broken and toxic that festered between you both. He had no right to be this close, no right to look at you with such aching gentleness. Not after what he had done. Not after what he had taken. And yet, he invaded your space like a tide rising to swallow you whole, and you let it happen.

Your arm, once so steady, weakened. The gun dipped, hanging useless at your side. It was no longer a threat, no longer a weapon—it was weight, dead weight in your grasp. Silco's hands framed your face, gloved fingertips pressing just enough to hold you there, as if you were something fragile. As if you were precious.

Just like before.

The memory surged like a phantom—months ago, another night, another confrontation. When you had stormed into his office with the same intent to kill him, when he had cradled your face like this, whispering words you hated yourself for believing.

How many times had you let him do this?

His touch trailed lower, the leather of his glove grazing your cheek, then your jaw, then—oh—your lips, where he wiped away the blood that had trickled from your nose. His gaze didn't waver, didn't darken with calculation or cruelty. Only quiet understanding. Your breath hitched when he did the same to your tears. It was unbearable. The tenderness. The contradiction of it all.

"Did you love me?" 

The words trembled from your lips before you could stop them. For a moment, Silco only looked at you, something shifting behind the deep crimson of his eye. Then, softly—too softly—he spoke.

"I still love, dove."

Present. Not past.

A confession. A fact. A truth that should have been the greatest joy of your life. But all you could feel was pain.

Then Silco kissed you.

It wasn't the kind of kiss that burned with hunger, nor was it one of control or victory. No, this was something else entirely. It was bitter. Slow. Laden with everything neither of you could say aloud. It was the venom that you willingly drank, knowing full well it would kill you. And yet, you parted your lips for him, let him pour it down your throat like it was salvation instead of poison.

And gods, it was sweet.

Not in the way a kiss should be, not in the way that lovers were meant to share, but in the aching way that only something doomed could be. It carried the weight of all your contradictions—love and hate, devotion and betrayal, desire and destruction. A cruel, quiet requiem for everything you had been, and everything you could never be again.

Your tears salted the kiss, mixing with the taste of him, with the heat of his breath and the slow, languid drag of his mouth against yours. Silco held you close, arms wrapped around you as if he could will the broken pieces of you back together. As if he had not been the one to shatter them in the first place.

The gun slipped from your fingers. It hit the floor with a dull thud, unnoticed, unimportant. The scent of smoke thickened in the air, curling at the edges of your awareness, but none of it mattered. Nothing mattered except the way your fingers curled around the nape of Silco's neck, drawing him deeper into the kiss, into the quiet devastation of it.

You let yourself drown.

You let yourself die.

Your other hand moved slowly—carefully—down his back, fingertips trailing along the fine fabric of his vest. The revolver was there, holstered at his hip, but you weren't interested in it.

No.

His dagger.

Your fingers found the hilt with ease, curling around the cool, familiar weight of it. And Silco... Silco was still kissing you like he didn't have a single doubt in his mind.

The dagger was cool in your grip, the blade hovering just above the fabric of his vest, waiting—waiting for you to do what had to be done. But you let yourself linger, just for a second longer. 

Silco's body pressed against yours, warm and firm, utterly unaware of what you held behind his back. The kiss had ended, but neither of you moved, your breaths mingling in the space between you. Close enough that you could count every flicker of orange in his left iris, every shade of blue in the right.

Gods, how you had loved those eyes.

Loved them when they softened in the dim of his office. Loved them when they studied you like you were a puzzle only he could solve. Loved them when they burned with anger, with hunger, with something terrifyingly close to devotion.

But now? Now they only made you want to die.

A cruel, hollow ache settled in your chest, knowing—deep down—that you would never truly stop loving them. No matter how much you wished to rip that feeling from your heart, no matter how deeply he had betrayed you. You swallowed past the lump in your throat.

"I hate..." your voice was barely above a whisper, wavering only slightly, "I hate how much you made me love you, Silco."

Something flickered across his face, but you didn't give yourself time to decipher it. The dagger moved toward its target — a single, precise thrust — No hesitation, no mercy. And not once did you look away from his eyes as you drove the blade into his back.

At the end, you were both backstabbers.

Part 20

AUTHOR'S NOTES: The rollercoaster has only just begun, so grab your seats. If you're here just for the smut I have to warn you that we won't have that for a while, for logical reasons. Anyway, if you're here for the story know that we'll have a lot of that now. The dialogue between them is a reference/based on an episode of an old radio show from 1944 "Dangerously Yours — Masquerade" because, holy shit, it fits perfectly with this chapter and I love the lines between Catherin and Rudolf. Watch it if you get the chance. Curiosity to screw up the psychological even more: Silco also stabbed Vander in the back, so we can consider it a payback... Please don't kill me... (By the way, this is the chapter planned since the beginning of this story and also the reason for the title being ma meilleure ennemie)

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[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 18/?)

Can you hear it? The subtle, almost imperceptible sound of something breaking. Not glass, not bones—something much deeper. Something inside you.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 7,8K

Warnings: smut, resolved sexual tension, vaginal fingering, sensory play, breeding kink, orgasm edging, light bondage, dom/sub dynamics, Silco being a tease, unprotected sex, morning sex, creampie, PTSD, panic and anxiety attacks, hallucinations, Silco POV

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

Part 17

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

He knelt on the mattress, his hands moving to her thighs to spread her legs even wider, baring her most intimate parts to his hungry gaze. Silco's breath caught in his throat as he watched, transfixed, as his own release slowly slid through her folds, the pearlescent essence coating her skin and glistening in the dim light. 

The sight sent a dark thrill through him, a primal surge of male satisfaction at the evidence of his claim on her, his mark upon her body. He could feel a strange, almost obsessed fixation taking hold.

"Tell me." Silco murmured, his voice a low, intense rasp as his fingers traced maddening circles on her inner thighs, his touch maddeningly close to where he most wanted to be again. "Have you been taking your birth control pills faithfully?"

"No." she responds quickly. "This month's shipment was late, so I haven't had it for a week."

Silco's eyes widened, a dark, almost manic light flickering in their depths as he processed her words. His fingers tightened on her thighs, the nails digging into her soft flesh as a shudder ran through his body, a mix of anticipation, fear, and a perverse thrill of excitement.

"You mean to tell me..." he growled, his voice a low, intense rumble, "That when you so boldly, so brazenly allowed me to finish inside you... you hadn't stopped to consider the fact that you were leaving yourself...exposed? Unprotected?"

"You don't have to worry about that." she sighed back, not at all concerned with the implication of his words. "I don't think I could get pregnant, anyway."

Silco's hand shot out, his fingers stopping the slow drip of his release from staining the sheets beneath them. "Don't waste it..." he rasped, his voice rough with a hunger he couldn't quite understand. "How can you be so sure of that?" She shrugged.

"Considering everything that's happened in my life..."

Silco rolled his eyes, a mix of exasperation and dark fascination playing across his face as he listened to her cryptic words. He couldn't fathom how she could be so blasé, so utterly unconcerned about the potential consequences of their unprotected coupling. Of course, he understood that the things that happened at the Institute had certainly changed her body in irreversible ways, but maybe... just maybe...

"Well, there's only one way to find out." Silco murmured, his voice a low, almost sinister rumble. And with that, he slipped two long, dexterous fingers inside her, feeling the slick, scorching heat of her walls clench around the intrusion.

Silco's breathing hitched as he watched, transfixed, as her body seemed to suck his fingers in deeper, as if greedy for every last drop of his seed. He could feel the way her muscles fluttered and clenched, as if trying to keep his essence inside her, to hold it deep within her womb. The sight of his fingers disappearing into her, coated in the mingled evidence of their passion, feels a dark thrill through Silco's body. He could see his perverse enjoyment.

As Silco's fingers slowly pumped in and out of her dripping core, he found himself rambling aloud, his thoughts tumbling out in a disjointed, almost stream-of-consciousness manner. His brow furrowed as he grappled with the realization of their current situation, his mind struggling to reconcile the woman beneath him with the image of the brothel prostitute he had once known. It had been so long that he didn't even remember that it all started in that brothel.

"I never paid attention to that detail, not the first time we fucked or any of the times after." his thumb brushing maddeningly over her sensitive clit as he spoke. "I just assumed... I mean, you worked at the brothel, so of course you'd be taking precautions, being careful not to end up with some child growing in your belly..."

His fingers stilled for a moment, buried deep inside her as he searched her face, looking for some sign of understanding, of gratitude. But all he saw was his face was an adorable blush. Her mouth was half open, drawing in long, deep breaths, her eyes staring at him with a mixture of admiration and pleasure.

"But you're not that woman anymore. You're mine now."

Silco's eyes darkened with a possessive, almost feral intensity as he moved to hover over her prone form, his fingers never ceasing their maddeningly slow torment of her dripping, needy sex. He could feel the slick heat of her arousal coating his digits, the wet sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of her tight channel filling the room.

"We have Jinx to raise already." there was a hint of teasing lacing his low timbre. "But I don't think the little imp would mind having a sibling. In fact, I have a feeling she would love a little brother to terrorize and boss around, just like she does me."

Leaning down, Silco pressed his lips against the shell of her ear, his breath hot and heavy as he whispered to her.

"Or perhaps... a sister, to love and protect as fiercely as she loves and protects you."

Silco's fingers curled inside her, pressing against that secret spot deep within her that made her see stars. His thumb circled her clit, the rough pad rubbing over the sensitive bundle of nerves in a way that made her hips buck and wrote beneath him.

"Wouldn't that be nice, dove? To have a little piece of both of us growing inside you."

Silco felt the way her velvet walls clenched and fluttered around his invading fingers, gripping them like a silken vise as if trying to pull them even deeper inside her. The sensation felt a dark thrill through his body, his spent cock twitching and stirring to life once more at the feeling of her desperation, her desire.

He watched, enraptured, as her hips undulated beneath him, her body instinctively trying to ride his hand, to chase the pleasure that his touch promised. The sight of her writhing, wanting and needy, was almost more than Silco could bear.

A low, dark chuckle rumbled up from Silco's chest as he took in the erotic display before him. His eyes glittered with a wicked, knowing light as he gazed down at her, a smug, self-satisfied smile playing about his lips. 

"Looks like someone likes that idea... likes it a great deal." he purred, his fingers never ceasing their maddeningly slow, deep strokes.

She let out a long, drawn-out moan of agreement, her back arching off the bed as she ground her hips against Silco's hand, desperate for more, for everything he could give her. The sound was music to Silco's ears, a symphonic chorus of his own triumph and success in reducing this strong, capable woman to a writhing, mewling mess beneath his touch.

"Use your voice, dove."

A new grumble mixed with a moan.

"Yes..." she gasped out, her voice ragged and thick with need. "God, yes, Silco... I want it. I want it so fucking much..."

Silco knew she wasn't speaking in earnest.

Drunk on pleasure, her body trembling beneath him, she had barely any grasp on the weight of her own words. Had she been in her right mind, she would never have uttered such a thing—never would have allowed such a thought to slip past those lips. And yet, despite knowing this, despite the absurdity of it, the sheer impossibility, he felt something dark and primal stir within him.

A sense of rightness.

He exhaled slowly, pressing his forehead to the crook of his neck, inhaling the lingering scent of sweat, grounding himself in the present even as his mind drifted to the impossible.

A child.

The notion was ridiculous.

The very idea of ​​bringing new life into their world—a world so cruel, so unrelenting—was nothing short of selfish. He came to believe this after Felicia died. Zaun was no place for innocence, no place for something as fragile as a child. To even consider it was to invite suffering.

He knew she was right—rationally, he knew. The likelihood of her being able to conceive was slim at best, an impossibility at worst.

But, what if...?

And with that thought, Silco redoubled his efforts, his fingers pumping into her with a newfound sense of urgency, a desperate need to bring her to the pinnacle of ecstasy and beyond. He could feel her body tensing, her walls fluttering and clenching around his digits as she raced towards her release, and he was determined to give her that satisfaction.

Silco could feel the way her body tensed and tightened as her climax approached. He knew she was teetering on the brink, balanced on the knife's edge of ecstasy, ready to tumble over into the abyss of rapture at any moment. With a wicked, almost cruel smile, Silco abruptly pulled his fingers out of her dripping, needy sex.

Yes, he would give her the satisfaction she wanted, but not now.

He watched, amused, as her body jerked and twitched, her hips bucking up into empty air as she chased the pleasure that had been so abruptly denied her.

Her enraged scream of frustration filled the room, a primal sound of pure, unadulterated outrage at being left wanting and unfulfilled. Silcou noticed how her hand quickly closed into a tight fist and she stared at him with that look that meant trouble. More precisely, trouble for him.

He grabbed her wrist just inches from his jaw, his fingers wrapping around her delicate bones with bruising force as he wrenched her arm downwards, stopping her attack in its tracks. Silco threw his head back and laughed, a deep, rich sound of pure mirth at her impotent fury.

"Careful." His eyes danced with mirth and a dark, self-satisfied gleam as he held her gaze. "You should be thanking me for not overstimulating you as thoroughly as you did to me."

He brought her hand to his lips, his mouth brushing over her knuckles in a mocking, almost taunting gesture. Silco's tongue flicked out, tracing the lines of her skin. "Consider it payback."

"Bastard."

"Yes, I am."

Silco leaned in, claiming her lips in a searing, dominating kiss. His tongue delved into her mouth, stroking over hers in a sensual dance that calmed her evident anger. As abruptly as it had begun, the kiss ended, and Silco pulled back, leaving she panting and dazed. Still seated above her, Silco's voice dropped to a low, commanding tone as he gave his next order, his eyes glinting with a dark, hungry light. 

"On your hands and knees. Now." 

His words were simple, but the underlying authority and demand was unmistakable. It was clear that he expected to be obeyed without hesitation or question. 

As she scrambled to comply, Silco rose from the bed, his nude form on full display without shame or modesty He scanned the disheveled pile of clothing strewn across the floor. His gaze landed on a shimmer of silk, a handkerchief of fabric that had once adorned his person at the grand ball the previous evening.

Silco reached down, plucking the silk handkerchief from the floor. The rich, white fabric slid like liquid satin through his fingers, a gossamer whisper of luxury and refinement.

He could think of a thousand and one uses for that handkerchief, a thousand and one ways to bind and tease and pleasure the woman now presented to him, her ass raised high and her back arched in a pose of wanton invitation. Silco's lips curled in a wicked, anticipatory smile as he turned back to the bed, the silk handkerchief dangling from his fingers like a promise of delights to come.

"Do you trust me, dove?"

She hesitated for only a measly second before— "Yes."

Silco stepped close, the cool silk of the handkerchief brushing against her skin as he carefully tied it around her eyes. He pulled the fabric taut, knotting it securely behind her head, ensuring that not even a sliver of light could penetrate the impromptu blindfold.

He stepped back, admiring the picture she made, all displayed to his hungry gaze. Silco's cock twitched and stirred, already hardening once more at the erotic sight she presented. He could take her now, could bury himself inside her welcoming heat and lose himself in the slick, silken embrace of her body again. But he wanted more than that.

Silco moved away, circling the bed like a predator stalking its prey. He stepped to the left, then to the right, his bare feet making not a sound against floor. And yet, to his amazement, her head turned, tracking his every movement with uncanny precision. It was as if she could sense him.

A dark, wicked smile curved Silco's lips as he watched her, watched the way she strained and focused, her concentration completely consumed by the effort to locate him in the darkness. It was a heady feeling, to hold such power over another, to know that she was so attuned to his presence, so desperate for his touch that she could sense him as if by some sixth sense.

Silco climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight as he positioned himself behind her. He gently but firmly pushed her torso downwards, arranging her so that her elbows were bent and her wrists crossed at the small of her back. The pillow cradled her head, the downy softness a sharp contrast to the hard, unyielding grip of Silco's hand as he pinned her wrists together, holding her in place with a strength that brooked no argument.

For a long moment, Silco simply drank in the sight of her again, his gaze roving over the elegant curve of her spine, the way her ribs flared out to the gentle swell of her hips and ass. God, he would never tire of watching her. It was like studying a work of art, a work created solely and exclusively for him.

His free hand drifted downwards, trailing lightly over the curve of her shoulder blade, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip. He could feel the heat of her skin, could see the goosebumps rising in the wake of his touch.

Silco's fingers brushed over the globes of her ass, squeezing and kneading the firm, yet pliant flesh. He could feel the way she tensed beneath his touch, her body coiling like a spring wound too tight, ready to snap at any moment. A low, dark chuckle rumbled up from his chest as he drank in her barely restrained passion, her desperate, aching need for his touch.

His hand drifted lower, his fingers skimming over the backs of her thighs, the delicate skin of her knees, before finally coming to rest at the juncture of her legs. Silco could feel the scorching heat emanating from her core, could see the way her folds glistened with the evidence of her arousal in the dim light of the room.

He circled her entrance with a single finger, teasing, tormenting, drawing breathy little whimpers and mewls from her lips. Then, his hand drifted lower, wrapping around his hardening cock, stroking it to full, aching erection as he watched her squirm and wrote beneath him.

Silco's cock, now fully hard and throbbing with need, pressed against her entrance. With a slow, deliberate motion, he began to push forward, his length parting her folds and sinking inch by inch. He kept his thrusts languid and measured, savoring the way her velvety walls clenched and fluttered around him as he claimed her, filling her so slowly, so completely.

Silco could feel the desperation radiating off of her in waves, could hear it in the increasingly loud, wanton moans that spilled from her lips with every gentle undulation of his hips. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, each inhale and exhale a little more ragged than it normally would be, as if the blindfold and the inability to touch him had somehow amplified every sensation, every spark of pleasure that raced through her body.

He could feel her trying to meet his thrusts, feel her hips rocking back against him, seeking more, demanding more. But with her wrists pinned beneath her and her vision obscured, she was at his mercy, completely under his control. It was a heady feeling, to hold such power over her, to know that every twist and turn of her body, every desperate keen and needy whimper, was a direct result of his actions, his choices.

Silco's breathing grew heavier as well, his chest pressing against the smooth expanse of her back with every slow, deep thrust. He could feel the sweat starting to gather on his skin, could feel the way his heart pounded against his ribs as he lost himself in the tight, slick heat of her. The sound of their coupling filled the room, the obscene wet slap of flesh against flesh, the breathy cries of a woman lost in the throes of ecstasy, all blending together in a symphony of raw, unbridled lust.

"We'll have to test the pregnancy thing, from now on, to see who was right." His lips brushing against the delicate shell of her ear as he whispered, his voice a low, sinful rasp. “Perhaps every day until we know for sure.” "Y—yes..." “Yeah?” he was smiling now, a wicked smile. “If my sweet dove wants it, she'll have it.”

At the same time, his free hand drifted upwards, the calloused palm and long, dexterous fingers splaying out over the gentle swell of her belly. He could feel the way her muscles trembled beneath his touch, could sense the desperate, aching need that consumed her every thought and action. Silco's hand drifted lower, his fingers splaying out over her mound, a almost taunting gesture that made she gasp.

As her body began to tremble and quake beneath him, Silco could feel her wrists straining against his grip, her fingers flexing and curling as if trying to break free. But he knew that if she wanted to let go she would do so easily, it was her choice to remain contained in that position.

"I... I'm close..." She gasped out, her voice a breathless, needy whimper that stroked over Silco's skin like the finest velvet. He could feel the way her body tensed, the way she arched and writhed beneath him as the first stirrings of her climax began to build.

Silco's thrusts grew harder, faster, the wet slap of his hips against her ass a lewd, obscene sound that filled the room. He could feel his climax building, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in his loins as he hurtled towards the inevitable, inescapable conclusion.

"Me too, dove." He panted against her ear, his voice ragged and thick with lust. Silco's hand then goes back up to her belly, a lazy caress on her sweaty skin. "Be a good girl and cum with me."

He felt the moment of no return arrive, the pressure that had been building to an unbearable crescendo finally bursting forth like a dam breaking under the force of a raging torrent. With a roar of primal, animalistic ecstasy, he surged forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt inside her spasming, clutching heat as his cock jerked and throbbed and pulsed, painting her womb with thick ropes of his seed.

At the same time, she let out a scream of purest rapture, her back arching almost painfully as her climax crashed through her like a tidal wave, sweeping away all thought and reason in its path. Her cunt clamped down around Silco like a silken vise, rippling and milking his spurting cock, as if desperate to wring every last drop of his essence from his body.

The force of their shared release left them both reeling, their bodies wracked with the aftershocks of the most intense, mind-blowing orgasms either had ever experienced. Silco could feel his strength giving out, his muscles turning to jelly as the last vestiges of his climax ebbed away. He had to grab onto the headboard with white-knuckled desperation, anchoring himself against the onslaught of sensation that threatened to sweep him away completely.

Beneath him, her body went limp, collapsing onto the bed in a boneless, sated heap. Her chest heaved as she gasped for air, her skin glazed with a sheen of sweat, her hair a wild, tangled halo around her head. Silco could see the utter, blissful destruction etched into every line and curve of her body, the way she had been wrung out and left empty, drained in the most exquisite way possible.

With a gentleness that belied the brutal, almost punishing pace of their coupling, Silco released her wrists from his grip, massaging the slight reddening of her skin as he did so. After, he drifted up to the silk handkerchief binding her eyes, untying the knot with deft, practiced ease. He peeled the fabric away, revealing the stunning, ethereal beauty of her face, her eyes glazed and unfocused as she floated in the aftermath of her release.

With a tenderness, Silco gently brushed the sweat-dampened strands of hair from her face. He tucked the errant locks behind her ear, his fingers lingering to trace the delicate curve of her jaw, the softness of her cheek. His touch was almost reverent, almost worshipful, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of her skin, to sear the feel of her into his mind.

Silco's voice was low and soft, a gentle murmur that rumbled through his chest as he leaned down to press his forehead against hers. 

"Are you alright?" his breath mingling with hers as they both struggled to catch their breath in the aftermath of their shared ecstasy. "I got a bit carried away at the end there. I hope I didn't overwhelm you with my... enthusiasm." He added, a note of understatement coloring his words.

"It's okay..." the poor thing was just as destroyed as he was, if not more. "I like it."

His thumb brushed over her cheekbone, wiping away the sheen of sweat that clung to her skin like a second skin. A wry, almost self-deprecating smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

As Silco made a move to pull away, to disentangle their sweat-slicked bodies and roll off of she, she reacted instinctively. Her hips shifted, tilting up slightly to meet his retreating form, the movement allowing her to keep him buried deep inside her still fluttering, sensitive heat. Silco let out a low, surprised grunt at the sudden ação, his brow arching in surprise as he looked down at her.

Her voice was a low, breathy murmur as she turned to face him over her shoulder, her eyes glinting with a mischievous, almost challenging light.

"Wasn't that you who said we would have to test the theory?"

He couldn't help but chuckle at her words, his chest rumbling with a deep, amused sound. Silco shook his head, a rueful smile playing about his lips as he gazed down at her with a mix of fondness and exasperation.

"Greedy girl." he murmured, though there was no real complaint in his tone, only a dark, sensual undertone. "It seems I've created a monster."

Silco's hands drifted down to her hips, gripping them with a possessiveness. He rolled his own hips forward, grinding his pelvis against her ass, the overstimulation being such a pleasurable pain that Silco gladly accepted it.

"But I suppose I can't blame you." his voice lowering to a sinful rasp. "Not when I'm the one who made you this way... then I suppose I have no choice but to indulge you." ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

[...]

When Silco finally released you from his room, you came to a rather interesting conclusion—irritating him was actually a fantastic idea. It wasn't an easy victory, of course. The way he had drawn things out, making you beg—no, earn—your freedom, was something that would linger in your muscles for the rest of the day. But in the end, you had won. In a way.

You never thought that not taking your pills could give you such a satisfying victory. Well, you could stop taking them, after all, you and Silco had a theory to prove.

That small triumph, however, had cost Silco time, and the moment he realized it, his irritation had turned from heated amusement to actual frustration. A commitment. An important one. Something about new tests for the Chemtanks, or perhaps an evaluation of progress. You didn't particularly care to know the details—only that it meant he would be gone for most of the day.

Which left you with the distinct problem of what to do with yourself.

You could have stayed in his room, but the idea of lounging there felt far too indulgent. Wandering around The Last Drop wasn't an option either—not with Silco's men constantly watching, their gazes heavy with unspoken questions.

The solution, then, was simple.

His office.

It wasn't exactly a sanctuary, but at least it granted you solitude. No one entered that space lightly—no one, except for Sevika. And sure enough, as you made your way down the hall, the familiar sound of heavy boots followed close behind. Sevika trailed after you, a fresh stack of correspondence balanced under her arm, her usual expression of perpetual disinterest firmly in place.

"I wanted to ask." you said suddenly, breaking the silence between you. "Does Silco have any place for training?"

If Sevika was surprised by the question, she didn't show it. Instead, she turned her head slightly, giving you a long, scrutinizing look. One brow arched, skepticism plain on her face.

"And why..." she drawled, voice thick with dry amusement, "Would you need a training area?"

You met her gaze without hesitation, your expression unreadable, deadpan. What do you think? you seemed to say without words. Sevika let out a sharp exhale through her nose, rolling her eyes in exaggerated exasperation.

"There's a small warehouse near the docks." she said, her tone shifting back to something gruff, businesslike. "That little blue-haired brat usually uses it to practice her aim. Or blow up some shit without killing anyone. Most of the time."

You hummed in acknowledgment, already filing the information away for later.

"But." Sevika continued, leveling you with a pointed look, "I don't think you need the practice anyway."

"I disagree."

You pushed open the heavy door to Silco's office, stepping aside to let her enter first before following her inside. The scent of smoke, gunpowder, and aged whiskey lingered in the air, a familiar mix that had become synonymous with Silco himself. The door clicked shut behind you as you turned back to Sevika, your voice calm but certain.

"I'm rusty."

Sevika scoffed, a dry, humorless chuckle leaving her lips. "Rusty?" She gave you a look like you had just said something incredibly stupid. "Didn't seem that way in the warehouse that day."

You didn't flinch under her gaze. "Trust me." you said simply, "I've been better."

With a careless motion, Sevika tossed a thick stack of papers onto Silco's desk with a loud thud, the impact shaking the surface just enough to make the inkwell rattle. She didn't spare the documents a second glance. Instead, she turned her sharp gaze to you, posture rigid and impatient.

"Sort this out with Silco." she said, tone clipped, already half-done with the conversation. "And if you need a training partner, you know where to find me."

You leaned against the desk, fingers idly tracing the grain of the wood as you tilted your head, a slow smirk tugging at your lips. "Why? Are you offering?"

Sevika's expression barely shifted at first—just the faintest narrowing of her eyes, a flicker of something unreadable. Then, her mouth twisted into a look caught between disbelief and irritation, like you had just said the most absurd thing she'd ever heard.

"Forget what I said..." she muttered, shaking her head before muttering under her breath, "I don't get paid enough for this."

"Obviously." you shot back smoothly, "you waste all your money on gambling."

Sevika moved—just a fraction, just enough for you to see the brief flicker of irritation cross her features before she caught herself, rolling her shoulders back and exhaling through her nose. For a moment, it looked like she might actually take a step forward, might make you regret that little jab, but instead, she shook her head, muttered something under her breath, and turned on her heel toward the door.

Still, just as she was leaving, you caught the half-angry, half-amused grumble she didn't quite manage to suppress— "Damn brat."

Silence remained for a few seconds in that room.

You were just about to reach for Silco's cards to use as a distraction from your boredom — you started reading his mail after that day in his office. He really didn't mind you reading it as long as you didn't mess it up — when the sharp clang of metal hitting the ground shattered the quiet. Instinctively, you turned, your eyes scanning the room until they landed on the source of the disturbance—something small and metallic rolling across the floor. A monkey's head.

Powder.

Immediately, your gauze lifted to the rafters, and sure enough, tucked between the wooden beams, was a small, familiar figure. Her blue eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, her small frame curled inward as if she were trying to disappear into the shadows.

She looked at you.

Then, without warning, she jumped.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up—arms rising on instinct, hands bracing for impact. A second later, the weight of her small body settled against your arms, a jolt of warmth and surprise running through you both.

For a beat, neither of you moved.

Powder blinked up at you, her expression frozen somewhere between awe and disbelief. As if she hadn't expected you to catch her. As if no one ever had before. And honestly, you were just as shocked as she was.

Clearing your throat, you quickly set her down on the table, brushing off the lingering weight of the moment. She sat there, legs dangling over the edge, her arms loosely wrapped around herself. Her wild blue hair was unbound, strands falling into her face like she had just tumbled out of bed.

"You didn't do your braids today." you noted, gesturing vaguely to the untamed mess.

Powder reached up, fingers toying absently with a loose strand. "Silco does them."

Oh.

The mental image formed instantly—Powder perched in Silco's lap, small and fidgety, while he carefully worked his fingers through her hair, twisting and securing the strands with the patience of someone who had done it a hundred times before.

That explained a lot.

"So... is that why you're here?" you asked, tilting your head. "Hate to break it to you, but Silco had to step out for work. He won't be back for a while."

Powder gave a small nod, but there was something off about it—something hesitant, like she had expected that answer but still didn't quite know what to do with it. She was quiet. Too quiet. The little girl who usually had a mouth full of mischief and hands full of trouble was suddenly shy, withdrawn, picking at the frayed hem of her shorts like she wasn't sure if she should stay or go.

Without thinking, you offered, "I can do it for you, if you want."

That got her attention. Powder's head lifted, a flicker of surprise passing through her expression.

"It won't be as good as Silco's." you admitted, giving a small shrug, "But at least it'll keep your hair out of your face."

For a moment, she just stared at you.

Then, hesitantly—almost cautiously—she nodded.

You guided her gently onto your lap as you settled into Silco's chair, the weight of her small frame warm and familiar against you. She shifted slightly, adjusting herself until she was comfortable, then without a word, she placed the ribbons on the desk, her silent invitation for you to begin.

You hesitated for only a moment before gathering a handful of her soft, blue strands, trying to recall the precise way Silco would weave them together. He was always meticulous in his braiding—precise, steady. A quiet ritual between the two of them, and now, for the first time, you were stepping into it.

The room was silent, save for the occasional creak of the old chair beneath you and the faint, rhythmic rustling of hair sliding between your fingers. Powder didn't speak. She simply sat there, still and waiting, trusting you with something so intimate.

You worked slowly, carefully. Your fingers weren't as deft as Silco's, but you were determined to do this right—for her. Powder sat quietly between your legs, her small frame tense, her head slightly tilted forward as you weaved your fingers through the soft blue strands of her hair.

You had just begun the second braid, threading the pieces together with a little more confidence, when—

Thud.

A sharp, dull impact.

Then another.

Your hands faltered for a split second, confusion flickering in your mind before realization struck like ice through your veins.

She was hitting herself.

Powder's small fist collided against the side of her head. Once. Twice. She raised it again for a third strike, but you caught her wrist before it could land.

"Powder?"

The moment the name left your lips, her entire body tensed against you. You didn't even care that you had called her by it—by the name that should have been dead. She stilled under your touch, her hand trembling in your grip. Her shoulders were tight, locked in place as though bracing for something unseen. Slowly, hesitantly, she turned her head to look at you over her shoulder.

Wide blue eyes, usually so full of mischief and sharp energy, now clouded with something far darker. Unshed tears clung to her lashes, her expression flickering between panic and exhaustion, between being here and being somewhere else entirely. You recognized it. You knew very well what she was feeling.

"Is it the voices?" You kept your voice low, careful. "Is that why you're so quiet?"

A beat of silence.

Then, barely above a whisper—

"I can see them." Her voice wavered. Small. Frightened. "They won't stop talking."

The words sat heavy in the space between you, sinking deep into the marrow of your bones.

Your grip on her wrist loosened, but you didn't let go entirely. You could feel the tremor in her fingers, the tension wound so tightly in her little body that it felt like she might snap apart at any second. Her gaze darted over your shoulder suddenly, locking onto something just past you. Her breathing hitched, going sharp and uneven, and her fingers twitched as if she wanted to claw her way free of your hold.

"My sweet little girl." You shifted slightly, keeping your hands on her, grounding her. "Look at me... I'm here and no one can reach you."

She blinked rapidly, like she was trying to shake something loose from her mind. But her eyes didn't stay on yours. They flickered away again, widening slightly, her lips parting like she was about to say something—

Or scream.

"They're not real."

You kept your voice soft, steady—gentle enough not to startle her, firm enough to keep her anchored. You knew better than to tell her to just ignore them. That wouldn't help. That never helped.

"They feel real." she shot back, her voice small, raw. A whisper drenched in something fragile and breaking.

She turned fully in your lap, her small fingers curling into the fabric of your clothes, gripping like she needed to hold on to something—someone—or she might slip away completely. Her breathing was erratic. Too fast. Shallow.

Her chest rose and fell in quick, uneven movements, panic curling around her lungs like a vice. Her wide, tear-filled eyes darted past your shoulder again, flinching at something only she could see. Her entire body trembled, stiff and coiled like a wire pulled too tight.

"They're right there." Her voice cracked. "I can see them. Staring. Laughing. Blaming me."

Your heart clenched painfully at the fear in her tone, at the way her fingers twisted harder into your clothes, nails pressing against your skin like she was trying to make sure you were real. That this was real. Slowly, carefully, you reached out, cupping her cheek, tilting her face until she had no choice but to look at you. Not at the shadows.

Not at the ghosts clawing at the edges of her mind.

"I know they feel real." you murmured, thumb brushing away the dampness beneath her eye. "I know it's hard and it hurts. Believe me, I know very well how painful it is. But you're here and I know how strong you are... Focus on my voice, my little one. Just my voice."

Her breath hitched, eyes flickering between yours, still darting past you every few seconds, wary, unsure. Her hands fisted tighter into your clothes.

"What if they never go away? What if I keep hearing them? I... I just wanted to help that night... It wasn't my intention to do that, but they keep blaming me." Powder's lower lip trembled, her voice barely audible now, so small. "I think I'm crazy..."

The way she said it—like a confession, like a wound torn open too many times—sent a sharp, aching pain through your chest.

"You're not crazy." Your fingers curled around the back of her neck, grounding her, letting her feel your warmth, your presence. "You're just hurting and I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

She exhaled shakily. The tension in her muscles didn't vanish, but you could feel the slightest bit of pressure ease, the frantic energy inside her dimming just enough for her to breathe. Her wide, glassy eyes searched yours, still afraid, still haunted—but holding on.

She swallowed hard. "Promise?"

You pressed a kiss to her forehead, holding her close, wrapping your arms around her like a shield against the monsters she couldn't fight on her own.

"Promise."

Slowly, your hand finds its way to the top of her head, fingers threading through her hair, gently smoothing down the wild strands. You move with patience, slow and rhythmic, grounding her with the steady motion. Her breathing is still ragged, uneven, but you can feel it gradually slowing, matching the rise and fall of your own chest.

The silence between you is thick—not uncomfortable, but heavy, weighted with everything left unsaid. When you finally speak, your voice is soft, careful.

"Whatever happened that night... it wasn't your fault."

She doesn't react, not at first. But the way her body stiffens, the way her fingers curl tighter against you—it tells you that she heard you. That she's listening.

You don't know exactly what she's referring to or what had happened to make her like this today, what ghost had risen from the depths of her mind to torment her. But you had seen this look before—this guilt, this raw, festering wound she carried inside her. You have your suspicions. That night. The one that had shattered everything.

The night Vander died. The night her siblings were taken from her, where she was somehow related. You vaguely remember hearing something about an explosion... which would link it to Powder's guilt, but you weren't sure and didn't want to ask. It didn't matter anyway.

"Sometimes." you continue, voice barely above a murmur, "We hurt the people we love, thinking we're saving them."

Powder shudders against you. You tighten your arms around her, holding her closer, as if sheer warmth alone could press the broken pieces of her back together.

"Your brothers loved you, despite everything. I know that." You breathe the words against her hair. "And Vander..." You pause, swallowing against the ache in your throat. "He would never blame you. Not for anything... You were his little girl and he loved you so much."

Powder's arms tighten around you, her small frame trembling against yours. She doesn't say anything, just holds on, like you're the last solid thing in a world that keeps shifting beneath her feet. You exhale, steadying yourself before speaking again, your voice a whisper in the quiet.

"They still love you."

Powder tenses—just barely—but you feel it. You close your eyes, pressing your cheek against the top of her head, your fingers still combing gently through her hair.

"I shouldn't have said 'loved,' because that hasn't changed. They still love you, Powder, wherever they are now. And you can't—" Your throat tightens for a second, but you push through it. "You can't let the voices drown out your memories of them. Ever. No matter what they say, no matter what anyone says."

Her breath hitches, and you feel her fist clench in the fabric of your clothes.

"Not even Silco?" she asks, so quiet you almost miss it.

You pull back just enough to look at her, brushing a strand of blue hair away from her damp cheek. Her eyes are wide, searching—uncertainty and something fragile, something scared, beneath the surface.

"Not even Silco." you say firmly because even though your feelings for him have evolved over the months you've been together, you recognize how damaging he can be. Powder is a fragile little girl he could model on his 'Jinx.' "Especially not him."

She looks down, chewing at her lip, but you don't let her retreat into herself. You cup her face, thumbs tracing over the smudges of tears on her skin, waiting until she meets your gaze again.

"You are still you." you murmur, holding her there, grounding her. "No matter what the voices say. No matter what he says. Powder and Jinx aren't two different people." Your fingers press lightly against her temple. "You are still you."

Then, without a word, she buries her face against your shoulder again, arms wrapped even tighter around you.

And you just hold her.

Eventually, your hands — ever patient — continued their task, weaving her unruly strands into braids despite the impossibility of the angle. The position was awkward, your wrists already aching from twisting in ways they shouldn't, but you were persistent—stubborn, even. And when the final strand was tucked into place, you realized something.

She had fallen asleep.

A deep, exhausted slumber, her small frame completely slack against you.

It was only then that you noticed the dark smudges beneath her eyes, the evidence that she had likely gone without sleep the night before. Nightmares, perhaps. Or maybe worse—visions of ghosts only she could see. You hadn't even realized she was struggling like this, hadn't imagined she was carrying this weight alone.

Your chest found at the thought.

Leaning back against the chair, you let one hand smooth over her hair, fingers running through the newly woven braids in slow, comforting movements. It was one thing for you to have your own ghosts whispering in the dark—but Powder? Powder was just a child. She shouldn't have to bear this, shouldn't have to suffer through fears too big for her small shoulders to carry.

And for now, at least, she wouldn't.

You weren't going to move. Not yet. She was too peaceful like this, too at ease, and you refused to be the one to wake her. So instead, you reached for Silco's correspondence, carefully lifting a letter with one hand. After all, he had given his permission to look at his letters anyway.

The first letters were irrelevant. Routine logistics. Shipments of Shimmer moving beyond Zaun's borders. Hardly surprising—Silco wasn't the kind of man to limit his empire's growth. Keeping the drug trade confined to Zaun alone would never make him the kind of wealthy he was. No, its reach extended far beyond the undercity, past the smog-choked streets and rusted bridges. The true power lay in distribution, in controlled dependence.

Then came letters from the other barons. Discussions of territory, resources, alliances. Names you recognized from the times Silco had vented to you in bed, his voice a low, tired rasp against your skin. Especially when Finn was involved.

Silco particularly loathed Finn.

It wasn't just the usual business rivalry—no, there was something personal about it, something raw, a deep-seated disdain that curled in his tone whenever the man's name was spoken. He had given you direct orders to keep your distance, his warning clipped and absolute. Silco rarely issued commands without reason, but this one... this one had been firm.

And yet, after rifling through document after document, you found nothing particularly interresante The letters were dull—expected maneuverings, predictable transactions. A pattern of influence, but no shocking revelations. Nothing you hadn't already suspected.

Your fingers skimmed over the next stack, flipping through pages of neatly scrawled reports, each one blurring into the next. It was tedious work, mundane—until—

Something different.

You felt it before you saw it.

The texture of the paper beneath your fingertips was thinner, slightly rougher, its edges more worn. The ink—smudged in places, not from carelessness but from haste. The strokes of the pen carried an urgency absent from the others. This was no formal report, no carefully curated correspondence.

More a note rather than a letter.

Scribbled quickly, absent of politeness, stripped of the usual pleasantries and pretense. The handwriting was cold, precise, almost... mechanical. The kind of script that came from hands used to writing the same phrases over and over.

And with each passing line, a quiet dread began to settle over you.

Bile burned at the back of your throat as your eyes scanned the cursed words on that damned letter. The longer you stared, the harder it became to breathe. A nauseating mix of emotions churned violently inside you—anger, disbelief, a dread so profound it made your limbs feel like lead.

Your fingers clenched around the brittle paper, creasing it beneath your grip. As if pressing hard enough—holding on hard enough—could force the meaning out of those words, could change them, could make them disappear before they shattered you completely.

It could be anything.

Any experiment. Any abomination. Singed had a hundred projects, a thousand sick and twisted ideas brewing in the shadows of his laboratory. This letter could be referring to any one of them. But then why did it feel like your name was written between the lines?

Your pulse thundered in your ears, drowning out reason, logic, hope.

The room around you felt distant, like a stage set for a play you were no longer a part of. The edges of your vision blurred, narrowed, darkened—your body aware of what your mind refused to accept. The weight of it pressed against your ribs, heavy, suffocating, drowning out any remaining certainty you had left.

You held Powder's small sleeping body against you as if it would calm your mind.

There had to be an explanation. A reason. A mistake. There had to be, because if there wasn't...

No! Silco wouldn't do this.

Not this. Not with you. Not after everything.

After everything he had seen—everything he knew. After every time he had pulled you back from the edge, even when he was the one who had driven you there in the first place. After every whispered word in the dark, after every moment when it felt like—against all odds—you were his.

He wasn't like the founder of the Institute. He wasn't.

He cared.

Then why—

Why did it feel like something inside you had just broken? .

.

.

.

.

Silco,

I urge you to reconsider the directive you have issued.

It is of utmost importance that we maintain our current research trajectory rather than diverting valuable resources toward an unproven endeavor with a high margin of error and inevitable waste. The subject's reaction to the administered dosage of Shimmer over the course of that week has resulted in an unforeseen mutation.

During some tests with live specimens, I identified that when placed under extreme stress or life-threatening situations, her ability manifests involuntarily—triggered not by conscious will, nor by the usual violent aggression we have observed in prior iterations, but rather as an automatic response of self-preservation. A parasitic survival mechanism, if you will—one that does not allow its host to perish. No matter the severity of what has been inflicted upon her.

In other words, we may have stumbled upon something far beyond our initial ambitions.

I trust you will see the value in this discovery.

—Singed

Part 19

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I don't know the meaning of happiness… therefore, you don't know it either. Okay, now you're starting to threaten me and come after me with torches and axes… Well, I warned you that we would enter a new arc in this story and it has just begun. She had to find out at some point, don't you think? And now it's time for Silco to deal with the consequences.

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[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 17/?)

Promises are easy to make, keeping them is difficult. Do not swear loyalty, do not offer redemption—do not promise what you cannot keep.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 7,4K

Warnings: smut, resolved sexual tension, oral sex (m!receiving), deep throat, a little bit of female domination, cowgirl position, unprotected sex, morning sex, suicide (but it will make sense I swear), mild anxiety attacks, Silco POV

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

Part 16

Deep, velvety petals curled into themselves in perfect, unnatural symmetry, so dark they almost absorbed the light around them. You held the flower delicately by its stem, turning it slightly between your fingers, studying the peculiar specimen. It wasn't common—black roses didn't exist. And yet, here it was, its petals an abyss of ink, velvety and impossibly dark. But it only lasted a moment in your grasp.

Before you could truly take it in, the rose crumbled into nothing.

Ash.

It slipped through your fingers like sand, dissipating into the air as though it had never existed in the first place. A cold chill crawled up your spine, tightening around the base of your neck. The air in the room shifted, thick with something unseen. You were alone—weren't you?—but you felt them. Watching.

It was time to leave.

The thought was immediate, instinctual, and you heeded it without hesitation. Turning on your heel, you stepped out of the room, the eerie weight of unseen eyes pressing against your back until the door clicked shut behind you.

The grand hall was easy to navigate after that—bright, pristine, alive with the hum of conversation. And there, amidst the sea of white and gold, was the sharp contrast of black. Silco. A solitary mark of darkness in an ocean of light. But he was not alone this time. The two boys from earlier stood beside him, their conversation flowing with an ease that suggested familiarity, perhaps even enjoyment.

Silco was the first to notice your return. Without breaking his sentence, he extended a hand toward you—a silent order. Come. You did. You stepped to his side, slipping seamlessly into the space he had reserved for you, but the sensation of being watched remained—a persistent itch at the base of your skull.

"My dear." Silco spoke smoothly, "Allow me to introduce two of Piltover's rising scientists, Jayce and Viktor." His tone was polite, measured, but there was something else beneath it. A note of calculation. "Viktor, in particular, is from Zaun—"

His voice faded into the background, his words swallowed by the sudden static in your ears.

Because you saw him.

A few meters away, near one of the towering marble pillars, stood a man. Older, his head nearly bald save for the short streaks of graying hair clinging to the sides. His beard was thick, well-groomed, equally as silvered. But it wasn't his face that sent a tremor down your spine. It wasn't the polished gold of his clothing, expensive and regal yet utterly at odds with the sheer emptiness behind his eyes.

Those eyes.

Black, soulless, unyielding.

They locked onto yours, unwavering.

And then he smiled. It wasn't a warm smile. Not one of recognition or joy. It was a hollow thing, sharp and false, curling his lips without reaching those abyssal eyes. Slowly, mockingly, he lifted his glass. A silent toast. A taunt.

Those eyes.

Suddenly, you were no longer in the grand hall.

The warmth of Silco's presence at your side was gone. The sea of white marble and glittering chandeliers had vanished. In their place was reinforced glass, thick and unyielding, standing between you and the world beyond. Heavy chains clung to your wrists and ankles, their weight dragging against the cold, sterile floor. Your fingers, slick with fresh blood, dripped crimson onto the ground beneath you—large, wet splatters spreading outward, the metallic tang of iron thick in the air.

You should have been unconscious.

The sedatives coursing through your veins were meant to take you down, to keep you docile. But somehow, you were still standing, your vision hazy yet locked onto the figure beyond the glass.

The Founder watched you in return. His expression was unreadable beneath the smooth, featureless expanse of his white mask, the cold gleam of artificial light reflecting off its flawless surface. The only part of him visible—the only thing that betrayed any semblance of humanity—were his eyes.

Those eyes looked at you as if you were nothing more than an experiment in progress. A little pet of his that would have to be taught to obey, by hook or by crook.

"She killed one of the scientists and severely wounded three others during the reflex test protocol."

A muffled voice, female, somewhere beyond the glass. Your gaze flicked to the source—the woman standing beside him, clad in the stark uniform of security personnel. Maybe she was their chief. Maybe she was the one who had put you down.

"She's becoming volatile. It was pure luck that I managed to sedate her, if I hadn't, she would have torn through the entire facility."

He didn't seem very impressed with the situation, in fact you could almost say he was amused. As if your escape attempt was somehow interesting to him. You got the feeling he knew how much you wanted to kill him and yet he wasn't impressed.

"Is the containment collar ready?"

The voice behind the mask asked—not the kind of deep, menacing voice that struck fear into your bones, but something higher, almost grating, yet muffled by both the mask and the thick glass between you.

You had vaguely heard about this containment collar they were developing especially to keep you under control. During the sessions where they tied you to the bed to inject, God knows what it was, into your veins, the scientists loved to talk among themselves and ignored that you were still there, turning over in agonizing silence. Because screaming, you learned over time, would do no good and would only hurt your throat.

"Still in the testing phase." the woman replied. "They're trying to regulate the voltage so it doesn't fry her brain."

"Put it on. She'll withstand it."

You moved. Instinctively.

A step forward—only to be yanked back, the cold bite of metal slicing into your wrists and ankles as the chains locked into place, unyielding in their grip. The force sent a sharp jolt of pain up your arms, grounding you in the present, in the stark reality of your captivity.

But it was enough. Just that single movement was enough to reveal it—something off about the space beyond the glass. The way the depth flattened, as though the walls were painted rather than real. The way details flickered at the edges of your vision, shifting, warping, like the world itself was fraying at the seams. A flaw. A crack in the illusion. The slip of a careless hand.

Your breath came in ragged, uneven bursts as you forced your gaze to focus. To see.

"It's not real."

And just like that, the illusion shattered. The memory peeled away like paper curling under open flame, the edges blackening, crumbling into nothing. The iron walls disintegrated. The chains dissolved into dust. The blood-stained floor cracked and splintered before vanishing into the void.

And suddenly, there was nothing.

No prison. No pain.

Only you.

And him.

"Not many manage to recognize the illusion, but I shouldn't be surprised."

No longer the same voice. No longer the same figure. Your muscles coiled, instinct screaming at you to be ready—to run, to fight, to act—but there was nowhere to go. Nothing but the endless dark surrounding you. Bootsteps echoed in the void and then he stepped forward. 

The mask remained on that figure's face. Stark white against the void, an expressionless facade that revealed nothing of what lay beneath it. But his posture—the effortless confidence, the way he tilted his head ever so slightly, as if studying you with newfound interest—told you enough. Not to mention the golden glow where his eyes were before.

"I was informed of your capabilities."

Your pulse pounded against your ribs. The remnants of the fabricated memory still clawed at the edges of your mind, whispering, urging you to question reality even now. But this—this was real. You felt it in your bones. In the cold, electric pulse of dread crawling up your spine.

Your voice was steady despite the tremor in your blood.

"Who sent you?"

You had to ask, even though you knew exactly who it was.

"Your former master." The words struck like a knife, sharp and precise, slicing through whatever fragile composure you had left. A breath of silence. Heavy. Suffocating. "He wishes to reclaim what is his."

"Let me guess." You ignored how that phrase had that disgusting connotation of possession, as if you were nothing more than just a thing. "He promised you a piece of the throne once he carried out his coup."

You forced the words past your lips, steady, unwavering—despite the chaos raging inside you. Every fiber of your being screamed that something was wrong. That you were wrong. Your body was failing, muscles seizing, lungs tightening as if the very air around you had turned against you. For the first time in your life, you were at a disadvantage in a fight. And you knew it.

This wasn't a battle of strength. It wasn't even one of skill. This was something else entirely—something insidious, creeping beneath your skin like poison. You had to play carefully now. Because nothing would save you from this except yourself.

The figure before you remained composed, unimpressed, his stance one of effortless dominance.

"Precisely."

The confirmation sent a sickening weight to the pit of your stomach.

"And what makes you think I'd let you take me to him?"

A soft chuckle. Unbothered.

"At this very moment." he mused, voice smooth as silk, "Your body is convulsing in the arms of your beloved. That beautiful white dress of yours? Now a deep, soaking red. The entire ballroom is in chaos." the voice continued, relentless, almost amused. "Whispers of assassination spreading like wildfire. And your poor, devoted lover?"

A pause.

The air in your lungs turned to ice.

"Shedding tears over your corpse..."

A fresh wave of nausea rolled through you. You could see it—could feel it—the phantom sensation of Silco's hands pressing against your body, desperate to stem the bleeding, crimson staining his fingers, his sleeves.

"Souls destined to meet, but not to stay."

The words hung in the air, dripping with cruel amusement, each syllable drawn out as if they were savoring the weight of their implications. The image they painted was so vivid, so grotesquely detailed, that for a moment, it felt real. Too real.

Your mind clawed through the haze, frantic, desperate, searching for the precise moment it had all gone wrong. Think. Focus. There had been nothing in your drink—you were certain of that. No bitterness, no unfamiliar scent lingering at the rim of your glass. You had been careful, cautious, as always. And yet, your body was betraying you. Your limbs felt heavier, your breath coming just a little too shallow, your pulse wrong.

Then it hit you. The rose.

The moment replayed in your mind with cruel clarity—the way it had disintegrated between your fingers, reduced to nothing but fine, gray ash. So fragile. So harmless at first glance. But that wasn't just ash, was it? It had seeped into your lungs, into your bloodstream, lacing itself through your body like an invisible thread, tightening around your fate with each breath you took.

Fucking clever.

Your stomach twisted, not with fear—but with cold, simmering anger. But that wasn't what unsettled you the most. It was their final words. "Souls destined to meet, but not to stay." What the hell was that supposed to mean? A warning? A prophecy? A taunt?

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms as you forced your expression into something unreadable, something sharp. If they were expecting panic, they would get nothing from you.

"I thought the plan was to take me alive."

Your voice came out even, measured, despite the way your veins screamed otherwise. A simple question, but a loaded one. A test. A challenge.

The figure simply smiled and that was what made your blood run cold.

"Oh, it is."

The figure's posture remained unnervingly composed, hands clasped behind their back, their stance almost leisurely. Like a spider waiting at the center of its web, watching you struggle, watching you understand.

"But you see, the art of resurrection is something our organization has perfected."

A slow, measured inhale. You took a step closer, gaze locked onto theirs, searching for any shift in expression beneath the mask. Nothing. Just that unwavering poise, that quiet confidence that made your skin prickle with unease.

"But you have another proposition, don't you?" you murmured, voice steady despite the way your pulse pounded beneath your ribs. "Because if this was just about abducting me, you wouldn't have gone through all this theatrics."

A beat of silence. Then, a small tilt of the head—subtle, but telling. They were pleased. You understood their game very well.

"I see potential in you." they admitted, their tone smooth, almost conversational. "Potential to be something more than a mere political pawn. Surely, you must know, your former master is unfit to rule. He is useful, yes, malleable, easy to control. But he is also a fool. Frankly, I'm impressed that someone like him was able to create something like you."

Your lips curled at the edges, though there was no amusement in it.

"I thought men like him were precisely what organizations like yours would want. Weak enough to be a puppet."

The figure didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. Beneath their mask, you could feel the weight of their smile.

"Oh, my dear..." they mused, stepping forward just enough to close the distance between you. Not close enough to touch, but enough that you could feel the phantom weight of their presence pressing against your skin. "To be a puppet, one must at least be perceived as a figure of power... and smart enough that people don't suspect there's something wrong."

Your voice remained unwavering.

"That man would hold no true power. He would only have control over you, which could shift in an instant the moment you decided to betray him. As you already did." A slow, deliberate nod. A small concession. "But you and your companion... you are a different case entirely."

Their voice dipped lower, a quiet hum laced with intrigue.

"You two command Zaun without the necessity of external support. An alliance between us would be mutually beneficial."

Your fingers twitched at your side, resisting the urge to advance on that unknown person and rip off that mask with your fists. But violence wouldn't save you from this situation, it would only make it worse. At least you had an advantage... and they didn't know it.

"And what exactly are you offering?"

"Our assistance in taking Piltover."

The answer was delivered with perfect composure, smooth as glass, as if it were the most obvious conclusion in the world. No hesitation. No flourish. Just a simple truth, spoken with the ease of one who held all the cards.

"I assume that is Silco's ultimate goal... and yours as well. In return, we ask only for your loyalty to our organization. The new rulers of Piltover and Zaun, bound to us, would be advantageous for all parties involved."

A proposal. A trap.

Your expression didn't waver, but the weight of their words settled against your skin like a cold, invisible hand pressing into your throat. This was a delicate game, one of patience, of performance—one misstep, one crack in your façade, and you would lose control of the board entirely.

So you took a step forward.

Your gaze fixed on the slits where the mask's eyes were, searching for something—anything—that symbolized that there was some humanity there. But all there was that golden glow, very different from the dark, human irises of the one who once controlled you. But you held their gaze, staring straight in the face.

Your hand drifted—subtly—to where the dagger Silco had given you should have been. The comforting weight of it should be there, pressing against the fabric of your gown, a quiet promise of survival. But of course, you weren't wearing the dress anymore.

Not in this illusion. Still, it didn't matter.

Your fingers brushed against nothingness, but your confidence never wavered. You let the ghost of a smile flicker across your lips—just enough. A whisper of amusement, a faint glimmer of control.

"You're right."

The words came smoothly, effortlessly, slipping from your lips like silk. You let them settle between you, let them lull your opponent into believing, even for a second, that you had yielded.

"It is a beneficial alliance."

A slow inhale left your lips as your fingers curled around something unseen. The hilt of the dagger that wasn't there—yet for a fleeting moment, you felt it. The familiar weight. The cold press of steel against your palm and that was all you needed.

"But you overlooked something." Silence stretched, thick with expectation, anticipation coiling in the air like a serpent waiting to strike. Your grip tightened. "Silco would never cry."

The words left your lips in a whisper—an absolute certainty. And then, with one swift motion, you drove the dagger to your own throat. A sharp sting. The blade cut through your skin so effortlessly that it barely felt real. But the warmth of blood spilling down your collar, the taste of iron flooding your mouth—it was real. The choking sensation clawing up your throat, the burn of air struggling to pass through the wound—it was all real.

Pain flashed bright and brutal. But for just a second—no, less than that—before the world went dark. And then, just as abruptly, it wasn't.

Your eyes snapped open.

No cold steel against your skin. No blood pooling at your feet, no suffocating void swallowing you whole. No death.

You were still there.

Standing at Silco's side.

The grand hall, the murmuring voices, the faint clink of crystal glasses—it was all unchanged, untouched, as if the moment before had never happened. Your gown remained pristine, the fabric smooth and unwrinkled, as though it had never been stained with your own desperation. The two men Silco had introduced you to mere moments ago continued speaking, the conversation around you carried on seamlessly, as if nothing had happened—because, of course, nothing had.

At least, not in this world.

Yet your fingers drifted to your throat instinctively, tracing the place where you had felt the blade carve into your skin. There was nothing there. No wound, no scar—just smooth, unblemished flesh. Your action was a gamble. A desperate move, born from the realization that you had been trapped within your own mind, ensnared by an external force. There had been only two outcomes to your decision: 

One, you would wake. 

Two, you would have killed yourself from the inside out.

And by the looks of it you had won the winning hand. 

Them a voice curled through the remnants of your consciousness, a whisper laced with amusement. A woman's voice. The real entity that had worn the face of your old master. The true force behind the illusion.

"Clever girl."

Somehow, you didn't feel particularly clever. If you were, you wouldn't have fallen into this trap in the first place. But one thing was certain—your former master was desperate enough to forge an alliance with someone from Noxus. Someone with abilities like that.

At the very least, this was a problem.

You could handle a physical fight. You had trained for that, had shaped your body into a weapon, honed your instincts into something near-predatory. But this—whatever this was—was something entirely different. Magic?

Magic in Piltover?

That, on its own, was dangerous.

Your mind replayed the sensation, the disorientation, the seamless transition between realities as if you had simply blinked and stepped into another world. No physical struggle. No warning. Just a shift—so subtle, so complete—that you hadn't even realized you were ensnared until it was far too late.

And yet...

You had the distinct impression that, whatever that thing—that woman—was, she had let you go. Not because she was incapable of holding you. Not because you had outmaneuvered her. No, it was a concession. A subtle lure, placed carefully to ensure you wouldn't completely reject the idea of an eventual alliance.

Their demand for loyalty was not about diplomacy, not about ensuring a balance of power. No, the currency they sought to trade was far more personal. Because what was the point of demanding allegiance if not to use what you had to offer?

Including you.

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Viktor was a man of potential—intelligent, ambitious, driven by an innate hunger to carve his name into the world. But as long as he remained in Piltover, he was not reliable. Not yet. Still, Silco saw an opportunity. If there was one thing that weak men desired above all else, it was to shed their weakness. To be reborn stronger, unshackled from their frailties. And Silco had every reason to believe that, given the right motivation, Viktor could be swayed.

Singed would certainly appreciate the assistance, especially now, with plans shifting in unexpected ways.

But that could wait.

Because at that moment, Silco was far more concerned with her.

He had noticed it first at the ball—the way her entire demeanor had shifted in an instant. At first, he had assumed she was simply bored or tired, lost in some idle thought, but then... the change came. Subtle, but distinct. A rigid awareness coiled through her frame, her gaze flitting over every shadow, every movement, as if anticipating an attack that never arrived. Even after they had left the grand hall, even now, standing within the familiar confines of his quarters, that sharp, watchful tension still held her in its grip.

Silco studied her as he discarded his coat. She had barely moved since stepping into the room, only removing her mask, still eerily quiet as she stared at her own reflection in the mirror.

Something was wrong.

He approached, careful, calculated. One hand settled against the small of her back first—a silent presence, a tether to the present—before gliding up to the intricate laces of her corset. His touch was light, testing, watching for any reaction.

And then his eyes met her in the mirror. She had already been watching him.

"Are you going to tell me what happened, dove... or will I have to demand it?"

Silco held her gaze, the dim lighting casting shadows across his sharp features, his expression unreadable but utterly focused. His fingers lingered at the ties of her corset, unmoving, waiting.

"He tried to reach me again."

Silco's eyes narrowed, a flash of anger sparking in their depths as he processed her ominous words. He knew instantly who she was referring to —the founder of the Institute, the man who had haunted her life for far too long. The mere mention of him was enough to make Silco's jaw clench, his grip on the laces of her corset tightening fractionally.

"How?"

"He made some kind of deal with a Noxian organization. I believe the same one that hosted the ball." she started, her voice steady at first, but he could hear the undercurrent of tension lacing each word. "They put me in some kind of trance... I don't know."

She exhaled sharply, her hands lifting to press against her temples, as if trying to ground herself, to pull her thoughts back into order.

"It wasn't like anything I've ever encountered before." she continued, fingers rubbing slow, absent circles against her skin. "It wasn't an attack, at least not in the way I expected. It wasn't meant to kill me. If that was their goal, they had the opportunity, but they didn't take it. Instead..."

Silco listened intently as she began to explain, his brows furrowing in concern and growing unease. As she spoke, he could hear the tremor in her voice, the way her words tumbled out in a nervous, jumbled rush. It was clear that whatever had happened at the ball had shaken her deeply.

"They wanted to negotiate."

Realizing that she was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack by the way her chest rose and fell rapidly, Silco made a conscious decision to help calm her down. His fingers began to work at the intricate laces of her corset, slowly and methodically undoing the tight knots that held the garment in place. With each lace loosened, he could feel her breathing start to even out, her body relaxing incrementally in his hold.

"And what exactly did they offer you?"

"Alliance." Her voice was even, but he knew her well enough to catch the weight beneath it. "They would help us in a coup d'état in Piltover in exchange for our loyalty."

The offer was almost laughable.

Loyalty.

The word echoed in his mind, bitter on his tongue.

It was not something to be given lightly. Not to men whose allegiances shifted with the winds of power. Not to a nation that prided itself on conquest, on consuming everything in its path until nothing remained but the twisted reflection of its own ambition. Noxus was a beast of war, relentless, insatiable. They would reduce Piltover to rubble, raze it to the ground with brutal efficiency. And then, once the ashes had settled, they would turn their gaze downward—to the Undercity, to Zaun.

Because men like these did not grant power. They took it.

Their assistance in a coup was, in theory, tempting. It was, after all, a dream he had harbored for years—the fall of Piltover, its arrogant elites stripped of their thrones, its people forced to reckon with the weight of their own hypocrisy. To see them suffer as Zaun had suffered. To make them kneel.

But this? This was not Zaun's  victory. This was not his war.

This was Noxus, slithering its way into a battlefield where it did not belong, whispering promises of power while tightening the noose around his throat. And they wanted her bound to them as well. His jaw tensed.

No.

He would not place himself, nor her, in the hands of a foreign empire that saw them as nothing more than tools to be sharpened and discarded.

Zaun would rise, but it would rise on his terms.

It would be his war.

His victory.

"I know this deal is something you would dream of, Silco, but I couldn't accept it... I couldn't."

As she continued to ramble, her words spilling out in a frantic, anxious torrent, Silco focused on the task of undressing her. His hands worked deftly, sliding the fabric of her dress down her body, inch by inch, helping to alleviate the suffocating weight of the heavy materials. He started at her shoulders, carefully easing the straps down her arms, his fingertips grazing her soft skin as he went. The dress pooled around her waist for a moment before Silco hooked his thumbs under the bodge, slowly tugging it downwards, letting it slither over her curves like liquid silver.

As the dress fell away, Silco took a moment to admire the way it highlighted the elegant lines of her back, the way her skin seemed to glow in the dim lighting of the room. He could see the delicate bones of her spine, the graceful curve of her shoulder blades, the soft swell of her buttocks as the dress puddled around her feet.

With the dress removed, Silco's hands began to roam over the newly exposed skin, his palms gliding over the smooth expanse of her back in a soothing, circular motion. He started at the base of her neck, his thumbs pressing gently into the tense muscles, working out the knots and kinks that had formed there.

Silco's hands slid lower, his fingers kneading and massaging the flesh of her shoulders, her upper back, his touch was a silent apology, a wordless way of telling her that he was there for her, that she was safe and protected in his arms. Silco's hands continued their path down her back, his fingers splaying out to cover as much of her skin as possible.

He could feel she melting under his touch, her body growing warm and pliant, her breathing evening out as he worked to chase away the lingering traces of fear and anxiety. Silco's hands slid lower still. He sought to erase the memory of her ordeal and replace it with something far more pleasant.

"You did well to refuse their offer, dove." he said, his words a quiet praise. "As tempting as it may have been, you knew that any agreement forged with such shadowy figures would come at a price. A steep one."

Silco's hands slid around to rest on the curve of her hips, his fingers splaying out to grip her gently as he pulled her flush against his own body. He could feel the soft, warm skin of her bare back pressing against his chest, the delicate lines of her spine fitting perfectly against the hard, sculpted planes of his own torso.

"We cannot know the true cost of such a bargain, not until it's far too late."

His thumb brushing over the soft swell of her breast, a gesture that was more about comfort than arousal. In that moment, Silco's focus was solely on erasing the vulnerability and trepidation that haunted her eyes. In that moment, with her naked body pressed against his own, her reflection staring back at them and the intimate nature of their embrace, there was no hint of sexuality in his touch.

"But I don't think a refusal will make them back down."She leaned back against him, her head resting lightly on his shoulder, and Silco felt the faintest tension in her muscles. "If that bastard was desperate enough to make a deal with those Noxian maniacs... none of them are going to stop."

Her voice was steady, but he knew better. There was something fractured beneath the surface, something raw and unspoken. Even though she had accepted the necessity of violence, there was still a part of her that remained terribly, irrevocably broken. And that part—Silco knew—was something he could never repair.

"And if... if they managed to reach me again and succeeded this time?" Silco watched as she hesitated, caught in the web of her own thoughts. He could see it—the way her fingers twitched slightly at her sides, the subtle, uneven rise and fall of her chest. The panic was creeping in, curling around the edges of her composure like smoke from a smoldering fire. "I can't go back to that place."

Her breath hitched just slightly at the admission, her eyes darting away as if ashamed to have spoken the words aloud.

"Sit on the bed." His voice cut through the air, firm, final. A command, not a request.

"What?"

She blinked, startled by the suddenness of it, but he was already moving, stepping away from her and toward the bed with purpose. He glanced back only once, raising a single brow—a silent expectation that she would follow. After a moment's hesitation, she turned. He watched as she reached for the robe draped over the chair, slipping it over her shoulders with slow, measured movements, as if grounding herself in the simple act of covering her skin.

Then, at last, she sat.

She scoffed, voice laced with bitter sarcasm. "You're excellent at comforting people, do you know that?"

Irritation rippled through her tone, sharp, unimpressed. She was visibly annoyed that he had shattered whatever fragile moment of vulnerability she had allowed herself. But Silco didn't care for the bite in her voice, nor for the way she bristled at him.

Instead, he moved.

Lowering himself to one knee before her. Just as a sinner would kneel in front of a goddess to atone for his sins. The shift caught her off guard. He saw it immediately—the way her breath hitched, the way her eyes widened, round as a startled fawn's. Shock overtook whatever storm had been churning inside her moments before, rendering her completely still.

Silent.

She didn't move, didn't resist as his fingers found the hem of her stocking. Silco took his time, dragging the delicate fabric down the smooth expanse of her leg with measured intent. His knuckles brushed along the curve of his calf as he worked, his touch neither rough nor hesitant, simply inevitable.

"You may think that." he murmured, voice low as he lifted his gaze to meet hers. His hands discarded the stocking to the side with little ceremony before reaching for her other leg, fingers finding their place once more. "But you're calmer now."

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched—small, nearly imperceptible. He caught it. A glimmer of something beneath the surface. When the second stocking slipped free, Silco did not let her go. Instead, his grip shifted, fingers curling around the back of her calf, pulling gently—just enough to tip her balance, just enough to force her to meet his gauze once more.

The air between them stretched taut.

His expression was impassive, unreadable, but his eyes burned with something far deeper than mere words could ever convey. It was the same look he wore when handling matters of the utmost importance, when he was utterly unwavering in his convictions.

A look that left no space for doubt, for hesitation—only certainty.

Only truth.

"They will never take you from me."

A pause.

"Do you promise?"

Her voice was soft, nearly swallowed by the silence between them. There was a fragility to it, a hesitation, as if she was teetering on the edge of something too uncertain to name. Fear laced the edges of her words, coiling around them like the ghost of an old wound, but her eyes... Her eyes told a different story.

Silco had come to recognize that look—unwavering, searching, a silent plea wrapped in the kind of trust that should have never been placed in a man like him. It was a dangerous thing, trust. It made people reckless, blind. It left them vulnerable to betrayal. And yet...

Yet, he did not resent it.

He should have. He should have found her faith in him foolish, naive, something to exploit, to mold into a shape that suited his needs. Instead, it settled in his chest like a weight, something heavy and unfamiliar, something that twisted in ways he refused to acknowledge.

He reached for her hand, his gloved fingers brushing over the warmth of her skin before curling around it, firm but careful. A quiet possession. A claim unspoken. He could feel the slight tremor in her fingers—barely there, but present enough for him to notice.

He brought her hand to his lips.

A breath passed between them, slow and steady, before he pressed his mouth against her knuckles. The touch was measured, his lips lingering just enough to leave the ghost of warmth behind. It was not a kiss of affection, nor was it one of comfort. It was something else entirely.

A vow.

Something older, something weightier than mere words.

His lips barely parted from her skin as he murmured, voice low, steady, and absolute:

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

A promise.

And Silco never made promises he did not intend to keep.

[...]

Silco stirred from his slumber, a soft groan escaping his lips as he felt a strange sensation stirred to life in his groin. His body tensed slightly, muscles tightening as a pleasurable warmth began to coil and build at the base of his spine. Still half-asleep, his mind hazy and unclear, Silco tried to blink away the lingering tendrils of the dream that had led him here.

It was then that he felt it — a wet, silken heat enveloping its hardening length, a tongue swirling around the sensitive crown, teasing the slit and the ridge with a maddening gentleness. Silco's breath hitched in his throat, his hips jerking forward reflexively as the pleasure intensified, the sensation of her mouth around him sending sparks of electricity racing through his nerves.

His eyes flew open, blinking away the last of his sleep and focusing on the sight before him. There, nestled between his legs, was she, her hair a tousled mess around her face as she looked up at him with those stunning eyes. He could see the way her lips stretched around his girth, her cheeks hollowing slightly as she sucked him with a fervor that made his cock throb in her mouth.

"Fuck, dove..." Silco groaned, his voice a low, husky rasp as he struggled to regain control of his faculties. "What are you... ah... fuck..."

Silco's hand flew to her hair, his fingers tangling in the silken strands as he watched her work, his breathing growing heavier and more labored with each passing second. He could feel the vibrations of her moan, the hum of her pleasure radiating through his flesh and settling deep in his core.

Silco's head fell back against the mattress as she moaned around his cock, the vibrations of her pleasure making his eyes roll back in bliss. Her mouth and tongue working in tandem to drive him to new heights of pleasure. The sight of her, so eager and wanton was almost too much for Silco to bear.

He could feel her throat constricting around him, the tight, rippling heat engulfing his cock as she swallowed around his length, her nose pressing against his pelvis with each pass.

Silco felt the last of his restraint slipping away. His hips began to move on their own accord, thrusting up to meet her descending mouth, fucking into the warm, welcoming heat of her throat. The rhythm was sloppy, desperate, driven by the all-consuming need to chase the pleasure she was offering him.

He could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, the tension coiling tighter and tighter as his climax approached. The sensation of her tongue swirling around the base of his shaft, her teeth gently grazing his flesh, was enough to push him to the brink of madness.

"Swallow it, dove." he chanted, his voice a low, guttural growl as he surged forward, burying himself to the hilt in her mouth, his heavy balls slapping against her chin. "Swallow every fucking drop..."

Silco's body went rigid, every muscle seizing up as the pleasure finally crested, washing over him in a massive, all-consuming wave. His vision went white, his hearing fading to a distance, ringing roar as his climax hit him with the force of a freight train. For a single, suspended moment, Silco was utterly lost, his mind blanking out as pure sensation overwhelmed him.

When he finally came back to himself, Silco blinked away the last of the spots dancing before his eyes, his chest heaving and his skin slick with a sheen of sweat. It was only then that he registered the weight of her body straddling his lap, her hands gripping his shoulders for balance as she climbed up to face him.

She was breathtaking, her hair disheveled and her eyes glowing with a triumphant, almost wicked light. As Silco watched, she swallowed making a show of it, and he could feel a rush of pride and possessiveness surge through him.

The sight was so erotic, so deeply, profoundly sensual that Silco felt a wave of dizziness wash over him, a sudden lightheadedness that made him feel as though he might pass out from the sheer intensity of it. In that moment, gazing up at her triumphant, arrogant face, Silco thought that if he were to die right then and there, he would have died a very, very happy and satisfied man.

As she moved to position Silco's sensitive tip at her entrance, a jolt of overstimulated nerves sent a shockwave through his body. Silco's hands flew up to grip her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises as he fought to ground himself against the overwhelming sensation.

"Wait..." Silco gritted out through clenched teeth, his voice a low, strained rasp as he struggled to rein in his frayed composure. "Too sensitive... give me a moment..."

Silco took a deep, shuddering breath, his fingers flexing against the soft curves of her hips as he fought to regain control over his fraying composure. As the sensitivity ebbed, Silco found himself acutely aware of every inch of skin-on-skin contact, every brush of her body against his. He watched, enraptured, as she began to move, her hips undulating in a slow, sensual rhythm that made his spent cock twitch and stir, already beginning to regain its hardness.

He let her lead, content to simply sit back and enjoy the show, his hands gripping her hips, without strength, just remaining there.

The sight of her was breathtaking, her hair cascading down her back in loose, tousled waves as she rolled and swayed above him. Silco let his gaze drift over her body, taking in the way her breasts bounced and swayed with each movement, the peaks of her nipples hard and straining. He could see the play of muscles beneath her skin, the flex and stretch of her abs as she worked herself over his still-sensitive length.

Silco's breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening as he felt the familiar tightening in his groin, the pressure building with alarming speed. He had thought he had more time, had believed he could hold off the impending climax, but her relentless movements had other plans.

His fingers dug into the flesh of her hips, holding on for dear life as the pleasure crested and peaked, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside her. Silco's head fell back against the pillow, his teeth clenched and his jaw tight as he fought to maintain control, to keep himself from simply letting go.

"Dove..." Silco grunted, his voice a strained, desperate rasp as he fought to hold back the tide of his impending release. "I'm... fuck, I'm close again... you need to slow down, or I won't... won't last much longer..."

Even as the words left his lips, Silco knew it was a losing battle. The sensation of her body moving over his, the slick, silken heat gripping him like a vice, was too much for his overstimulated flesh to withstand.

"That fast?" she replied in a half-sigh, half-taunt. "I thought I could handle a second round."

Silco let out a half-snarl, half-moan, his eyes flashing with a mix of anger, frustration, and an all-consuming lust. One of Silco's hands flew to tug on her necklace to level their gazes; was it just him or did she never take that necklace off?

"Don't you dare act like this is my fault." Silco snarled, his voice a low, guttural rasp. "If you hadn't attacked me so fucking suddenly this morning, maybe I'd have the stamina to keep up with you, you wicked little tease."

"Well... I didn't see you complaining about that." She was giving that smile, that damn smile that Silco hated to love.

Silco opened his mouth to retort, a sharp, biting comment poised on the tip of his tongue, ready to lash out at her taunting words. But the words died in his throat as the pleasure crested. She was now riding him faster... deeper, obviously on purpose. The heat and pressure building to an unbearable peak before finally, blessedly, exploding outwards.

His hips jerked and spasmed, his body shaking with the intensity of his release as he emptied himself inside her.

It was a moment of pure, unadulterated bliss, a second of utter, mindless rapture that seemed to stretch on for an eternity. Silco was lost in it, drowning in the all-consuming ecstasy of his climax, his mind blanking out as sensation overwhelmed every other thought or care. As the waves of pleasure began to ebb, Silco slowly came back to himself, his chest heaving and his skin slick with sweat. He blinked away the last of the spots dancing before his eyes, his gaze slowly focusing on her triumphant, wickedly smiling face.

Silco tried to muster up some semblance of outrage. But in that moment, with his body still shaking from the aftershocks of his intense orgasm, he found he couldn't quite bring himself to care. Instead, he simply shook his head, a wry, almost reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You little minx." he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble. "If that was your attempt at killing me, dove, I must say, you have a rather... unorthodox approach to murder."

"It seemed quite effective to me."

She shifted against him, just enough to remind him of the position they were still in. The movement was barely anything—an almost imperceptible roll of her hips—but it struck him like a live wire. His breath hitched, his hands instinctively tightening around her to keep her still. A second time had been tolerable. Barely. A third would be his end.

"Either way, you'll have to make it up to me later."

Silco exhaled through his nose, a short, sardonic laugh. "And here I thought you woke up benevolent today."

She scoffed, stretching like a satisfied cat above him, all bare skin and teasing smiles. "Benevolent? To you?" Her voice was pure amusement, wickedness lacing every syllable. The corner of her lips curled just enough to taunt him. "In your dreams, Silco."

Ah. There she was.

Silco hummed, shifting lazily on the sheets, his body still steeped in the afterglow of his climax. But she was tempting fate, pressing her advantage like she always did—like she could. And he wouldn't allow that.

Not without consequence.

With practiced ease, he reversed their positions, his grip firm as he guided her onto her back. A sharp gasp left her lips when his hands settled on her knees, spreading them apart and placing himself between her thighs.

"I wonder if you ever consider the consequences before starting these little games." His voice was a low purr, silk laced with gravel, all patience and promise.

She swallowed, just barely, but he noticed. He always noticed.

"Tell me, now without your usual mischief." He leaned in, his lips ghosting over the sensitive skin of her throat, taking in the way her pulse jumped at the contact. "Why did you do it? Not that I'm complaining about being woken up like this... I'm just curious about your real intentions. If you want something, just ask me."

There was a pause. A hesitation, fleeting yet sharp enough to draw his attention. The way she was looking at him now was as if she had suddenly realized something.

"Because I lo—"

The words caught in her throat, her body tensing beneath him as though she'd realized her mistake too late. A second of silence. Then, a swift correction.

"Because I wanted to thank you." Another pause. "For last night."

Ah.

Silco felt a smirk of his own creeping into place, though he said nothing immediately. Instead, he let his hands wander, his touch as slow and calculated as his thoughts. She had almost said something else. Something he wasn't sure either of them was prepared for. But if she wasn't ready to admit it, he certainly wasn't going to be the one to say it first.

Not yet.

"Then I suppose it's only fair that I thank you as well for being such a well-mannered little thing, don't you think, my sweet dove?"

Part 18

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This chapter was actually just one with over 10k, but there ended up being a lot of things happening in a very short presentation space, so for the sake of your sanity and also because I wanted to focus a little on the relationship between reader and Silco, I separated this chapter into two distinct parts. The next one is almost complete, but I will re-edit it to work as a whole chapter and add a new scene that you will choose this time. Now I will let you choose between the two options below to continue from this ending and relax, there won't be any pregnancies in this story (I particularly don't like this type of plot).

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[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 16/?)

In a masquerade, faces are borrowed, truths are twisted, and sins are veiled beneath silk and gold. What happens beneath the masks stays there—after all, isn't that the point of wearing one?

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 13,7K

Warnings: smut, resolved sexual tension, unprotected sex, sex against the door, mirror sex, use of the title "sir" in a sexual context, semi-public sex, dirty talk, dom/sub dynamics, Silco teaching about manipulation and being a little self-centered, Silco POV

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

Useful information for better visualization during the chapter: Costumes inspired by "The Phantom of the Opera", a 2004 film. Mask used by the reader Main dance music: Phantom of the Opera By Prague Cello Quartet

Part 15

Five days later.

There was a little Powder by your side, her bright blue eyes wide with wonder as she curled into the folds of your long dress. The delicate lace at the hem fascinated her, her small fingers tracing the intricate patterns with the kind of reverence only a child could possess. 

It wasn't exactly wise to let an excitable child like Powder play around with a pristine white dress—especially when she had an uncanny talent for turning anything into a mess within minutes. But you didn't care. Not when she looked so enraptured, so utterly captivated by something as simple as fabric. You watched her with quiet amusement before speaking, voice laced with gentle curiosity.

"You're not supposed to be here, are you?"

"Nope."

"Then how did you get in, little one?"

"The same way everyone else does, duh." Powder rolled her eyes, voice dripping with exaggerated exasperation. "Through the front door."

A soft chuckle slipped past your lips as you reached out to ruffle her twin braids—those stubbornly tight plaits she adored so much. She huffed at the gesture, scrunching her nose in protest, but didn't pull away. Her small fingers continued fidgeting absentmindedly with the lace of your dress, twirling the delicate fabric between them.

"And how, exactly, did Silco not see you sneaking in?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Powder's mischievous grin widened. Without missing a beat, she lifted one tiny hand to cover her left eye, dramatically mimicking Silco's scarred visage.

"Did you forget? He's practically blind!"

Her impression was ridiculous—an exaggerated scowl twisting her face, her stance suddenly rigid as if she were trying to embody some grand, intimidating presence. It was so absurdly endearing that you had to press your lips together to keep from laughing outright.

"Stop that!" You playfully nudged her hand away, shaking your head. "He's not blind, just stressed. And stress affects his ability to see things clearly."

Powder snorted, unimpressed. "Same thing."

You sighed, shaking your head, but there was no real reprimand behind it. Powder was Powder—cheeky, unpredictable, and absolutely relentless. And honestly? You wouldn't have her any other way.

"Yes, but he doesn't need to know that fact."

That sent her into fit of giggles, a sweet, airy sound that filled the room like the purest melody. It bounced off the walls, wrapping around you in warmth, in something so light and innocent that it made your chest tighten. You had grown to love that laughter—especially when you were the cause of it.

You wanted to protect that little girl from the world, to shield her from the darkness you knew lurked just outside these walls. And now, you understood. Now, you truly understood why Silco was so fiercely protective of her.

A soft smile lingered on your lips as you turned back to the mirror, letting her continue playing with the layers of the dress while your fingers deftly adjusting the delicate corset. It fits your body perfectly, sculpting to your frame like a second skin. The square neckline framed your shoulders with an understated elegance, accentuating the delicate curve of your collarbone.

The fabric was impossibly light, almost ethereal, as if woven from something intangible—meant to float, to move with every shift of your body like whispered silk against your skin. The embroidered lace on the sheer, long sleeves stretched over your arms in intricate, delicate patterns, casting faint shadows against your skin beneath the flickering candlelight. Your fingertips trailed along the edges of the fabric, feeling the contrast between its fine, airy texture and the coolness that clung to the dimly lit room.

The skirt cascaded around your legs like mist, flowing with every subtle movement, the hem brushing against the floor in an effortless dance. But the most daring detail—the one that made your breath hitch ever so slightly—was the slit along the side, parting just enough to reveal a glimpse of your thigh, the white lace of your stockings peeking through like a whispered temptation.

Silco had been oddly particular about choosing this dress for you. It was a deliberate choice, one he had made with the same precision he applied to everything that held his interest. And yet, you couldn't quite understand why he had chosen white.

Red or black—you had expected something in those shades. His colors. Deep, commanding, unyielding. But white? White was... unsettling. It clung to you like a contradiction, draping over your body in soft, immaculate folds, as if whispering of innocence and virtue. But you were long past that, weren't you? Whatever purity white was meant to represent had been stripped from you long ago, leaving behind something far more jagged, something that Silco himself had helped shape.

Still, it fit you well. Annoyingly well.

You shifted, gently nudging Powder aside as you reached for your mask. Like the dress, it was a masterpiece in its own right. The black filigree metal gleamed under the dim light, each delicate swirl and intricate detail a testament to craftsmanship that bordered on artistry. The design was slightly asymmetrical—the filigree curling like lacework over one eye, while the other side was left exposed, adorned only by three fine golden chains that draped subtly across the space where the mask should have extended further.

A statement. A choice. A balance between concealment and exposure.

You crouched slightly, holding the mask out to Powder, wordlessly inviting her to help you secure it. Her face lit up instantly, her hands—small but quick—reaching for the black satin ribbon. She worked with impressive speed, fingers nimble as she fastened the knot at the back of your head. There was a faint tug as she adjusted the placement, ensuring it sat just right, her touch light but precise.

Then, as if she were handling something delicate, she fussed over your hair. Tiny, careful hands smoothed stray strands, adjusting a curl here, tucking another behind your ear there. The concentration on her face was almost comical—brows furrowed, lips pursed in deep thought, as if she were a sculptor perfecting her masterpiece.

"There." she declared at last, stepping back with a triumphant nod. "Now you look perfect."

You let out a quiet huff of laughter, tilting your head.

"How perfect?"

Powder tapped a finger against her chin, pretending to consider her answer before breaking into a mischievous grin.

"Like a really fancy villain."

You arched a brow, amused. "A villain, huh?"

"The best kind."

A smirk ghosted across your lips, and before she could dodge, you ruffled her hair again, messing up her carefully styled braids.

"Hey!" Powder whined, swatting at your hand.

"If you say so, little one." you teased, unable to help the fondness in your voice.

She crossed her arms, puffing out her cheeks in mock indignation before suddenly tilting her head, blue eyes scanning you once more. "But..." She hesitated, then grinned wide, her voice soft with something that almost felt like awe. "You also look like a princess."

Oh, heavens...

For a moment, you could do nothing but stare. Those wide, gleaming blue eyes gazed up at you with such raw admiration, such unfiltered wonder, that it nearly stole the breath from your lungs. Powder wasn't just looking at you—she was seeing you, in the way only a child could. To her, you weren't just someone in a dress. You were something magical.

Without a second thought, you reached up and carefully removed the tiara from your hair. The delicate piece had been chosen to complement your attire, a glimmering, ornamental crown meant for a ballroom and whispered admiration. But now, none of that mattered.

Without hesitation, you placed it atop Powder's head.

The weight of it made her pause, her eyes blinking up at you in confusion. Of course, the tiara sat awkwardly at first, tilted precariously to one side—the size difference between your head and hers was undeniable—but with a few gentle adjustments, you managed to nestle it securely among her braids.

"Look at that." you murmured, stepping back slightly. "Now you're a princess too."

Powder hesitated for only a fraction of a second before her small fingers shot up to brush against the cool metal resting atop her hair. Then, as realization dawned, a spark of pure excitement lit up her face. Without another word, she spun on her heel and bolted toward the mirror.

You watched from behind as she tilted her head this way and that, twisting and turning, examining her reflection with unfiltered delight. The way her fingers lightly traced over the tiara, the way her lips parted in a silent, awed smile—it was the kind of joy so rare, so fleeting, that it made your chest ache.

You found yourself smiling too. A soft, almost foolish smile—one you didn't even try to suppress.

Powder was just a small girl living in a cruel, bloodstained world. One day, she would have to see and do terrible things. Things no child should ever be forced to endure. But she didn't have to lose her innocence as early as you had lost yours.

No.

You would make sure of that.

You would give Vander's daughter—Silco's daughter—everything you were never given the right to have.

You were so lost in those thoughts that you barely had time to react when something collided with you. A small body crashed against yours, nearly knocking you off balance. Tiny arms wrapped around your waist, holding on with a fierce, unrelenting grip. Soft blue hair pressed against your stomach.

Powder was hugging you.

For a long, frozen moment, your mind didn't quite know how to react.

There was something about your late-night meetings at the bar—something unspoken, something careful. No matter how friendly your interactions were, Powder rarely touched you, and she rarely allowed you to touch her. It was an unspoken boundary, one you never tried to cross.

And you didn't mind.

Her presence alone was enough.

So to have her hugging you now—arms wound tightly around your waist, fingers gripping the fabric of your dress like she feared you'd slip away—felt strange. Not unwelcome, just... unexpected.

There was something heartbreakingly fragile in the way she clung to you, like a child seeking comfort but too proud to ask for it.

The only person who had touched you in all these months had been Silco. His touch was something you had grown accustomed to—the weight of his hands against your skin, the casual, possessive way he would lift your chin to look at him, the way his fingers would trail over your skin, lingering just long enough to remind you that he was there. That you belonged to him.

But this?

This was different.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure, before your hand came up, cradling the back of her head with a careful, almost tentative touch. The strands of blue hair were soft against your fingertips. Slowly, cautiously, you lowered yourself to her height, making sure to meet her gaze directly.

Her face was warm beneath your hands, small and delicate, though there was a steeliness in her eyes—a fire that had yet to be fully tempered by the world's cruelty. And yet... something about her reminded you of Silco. Maybe it was the intensity in her stare, the way she observed everything with an unwavering, discerning gaze. Or maybe it was just the way she was—defiant, unpredictable, always teetering between innocence and something far more dangerous.

You pulled her closer, arms tightening around her in an embrace that felt... heavier than it should have. Not physically, but emotionally. There was a weight to it, something unspoken pressing against your ribs, making your breath hitch for just a moment. And for a fleeting second, you could have sworn—almost—that you felt it.

That warmth.

That imposing, steady presence you had once known so well. The one who was a leader and yet a friend. The person you would kill and die for.

Vander.

The thought came unbidden, curling around your mind like smoke from a dying ember. You could have dismissed it as foolishness, a trick of your own sentimentality—reaching, grasping for something long since buried. But still, for that brief moment, Powder felt familiar. She reminded you of him.

Then, just as quickly as she had clung to you, she shoved herself out of your grasp, her small hands pressing against your arms with a stubborn impatience that made you chuckle.

"Alright, alright. Enough of that!" she huffed, scowling as if the very idea of vulnerability physically pained her. She wriggled free with dramatic flair, shaking off whatever impulse had driven her into your arms in the first place.

You smirked, amusement curling at the edges of your lips as you let your arms fall back to your sides.

"Guess that's all I get, huh?"

Powder rolled her eyes so hard you half-expected them to pop right out of her skull. Arms crossed, chin tilted up, she scoffed with practiced indifference.

"Don't get used to it."

You wouldn't. But for now, the memory of that fleeting warmth was enough.

You watched her for a moment longer, noting the way she averted her gaze, how she fidgeted with the ends of her hair, the ghost of something unreadable flickering behind those electric blue eyes. It was gone as fast as it came, replaced by her usual energy. You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head with a soft chuckle.

"Do me a favor, will you?"

Jinx raised a brow, suspicious but intrigued. "Depends. Is it fun?"

You grinned. "Depends. Will you actually listen?"

Her cackle was immediate, sharp and delighted. "Pfft! Absolutely not!"

You moved toward the dresser slowly, the fabric of your dress whispering against the floor with each measured step. The room was bathed in the restless hues of neon—bleeding shades of pink, violet, and electric blue filtering through the open window, painting shifting patterns across the walls. You hadn't bothered to draw the curtains. Maybe you had forgotten. Maybe you had simply stopped caring.

Behind you, Powder was watching, her wide, curious eyes tracking your every movement.

Your fingers found the cool gold of your necklace, the familiar weight of the chain slipping easily between them. You glanced over your shoulder at her, lips curving into something soft, something secret.

"Here." you murmured, turning and holding the necklace out to her.

Powder's eyes flickered between you and the delicate piece of jewelry in your hand. "For me?" she asked, blinking as though the thought had never even occurred to her.

You huffed out a quiet laugh. "No, little one. I need you to take it to Silco for me."

She pouted dramatically, but her fingers still closed around the chain, cradling it like it was something sacred. You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice like you were sharing the most important of secrets.

"And while you're at it..." you smirked, tilting your head conspiratorially, "Make sure to show him your new tiara. I'm sure you look far more regal than he ever could."

Powder gasped, delighted, her free hand shooting up to adjust the tiara in her hair. "You think so?"

"I know so."

That was all she needed.

She beamed up at you before spinning on her heels, already bolting for the door. "Okay! I'll tell him you said that!"

"You! Wait, no!"

Too late. She was gone.

She nearly tripped over her own feet in her haste, but it didn't slow her down. Within seconds, she had disappeared down the hall, her breathless giggles fading into the distance, swallowed by the dim hum of the city outside.

And then—silence.

You remained standing there, frozen in place, staring blankly at the uneven patterns of the wooden floor. Now, without Powder's presence to pull your thoughts away, they returned in full force—sharp, relentless.

The night outside was restless, alive. Even in the quiet, the Last Drop never truly slept. There was always something—a muffled conversation behind closed doors, the distant shuffle of feet in the alleyways, the faint clink of glass against glass. But tonight, it was as still as it could ever be.

Still, it wasn't enough to silence the pounding of your own heart.

Your mouth was dry. Your palms slick with sweat. Nervous was an understatement. You felt like you were unraveling, thread by thread. The very thought of setting foot in Piltover again sent a tremor through your spine, curling tight in your stomach like something cold and insidious. You had told yourself—over and over again—that nothing and no one could take you back.

They had failed once, in that pathetic attempt to kidnap you. They would fail again. And yet, the fear still lingered. A quiet, whispering thing. What if?

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe, forcing your muscles to move, to do something other than stand there like a caged animal waiting for the inevitable.

One step forward.

Another.

You pushed through the door.

The air in the hallway was thick with the lingering scent of smoke and aged wood, steeped into the walls, woven into the very bones of this place. Familiar. Grounding. But not enough to ease the weight pressing down on your chest. You moved forward, steps light as you neared the staircase.

Then—voices.

Drifting up from below, low and restrained, just beneath the usual hum of the bar. The unmistakable murmur of a conversation on the edge of something sharper.

And Silco's voice.

Smooth but laced with irritation.

"How many times have I told you not to show up like this at this hour, Jinx?"

Silco's voice carried through, edged with that distinct, weary patience he reserved only for her. Not anger, not even irritation—just the kind of exhaustion that came from knowing full well that no amount of scolding would ever change her behavior.

"If I obeyed every order you gave me, I'd never do anything."

You could practically hear the smirk in her voice, that teasing lilt laced with mischief. There was a brief pause, just long enough for you to wonder if, for once, she might actually acknowledge his reprimand.

And then—

A sound. Half-choked, half-laughter. Like someone who had tried to stifle a laugh but had taken a sip of something at the wrong time.

"Jinx!" His voice sharpened, reprimanding, but even from here, you knew.

She wasn't sorry. Not in the slightest. 

You and Silco were going to have so many problems when she reached adolescence.

Oh...

And that was what made your chest tighten. Because in that moment, you saw it clearly. You saw what you'd both become for you. The realization hit like a sudden drop, stealing the breath from your lungs—sharp, unexpected, irrevocable. Because this wasn't just about the near future.

No.

You were imagining something more. A real future. With him. With her.

That was dangerous.

You knew what happened when you started caring. When you let yourself get tangled in the fragile, messy concept of family.

You had spent years building walls to keep that kind of vulnerability at bay—brick by brick, carefully, methodically—until the person you used to be was little more than a ghost haunting the edges of your reflection. And yet, here you were. Standing in a dimly lit hallway, half-hidden in the shadows, listening to them bicker below.

And for a brief, foolish moment, you let yourself believe in something soft. Something that could be ripped away.

Just like Vander.

The thought struck like a blade slipping between ribs—silent, precise, lethal. You inhaled sharply, grounding yourself before it could take root. No. You couldn't afford to dream about things that were never meant to be yours.

You clenched your jaw, forcing the sentiment down, burying it where it belonged. Now wasn't the time to drown in memories. Now was the time to act. It was time—time to silence the voices in your head and, just as importantly, to put an end to the monologue Silco was undoubtedly about to deliver on the virtues of following orders.

So, you stepped forward. Emerging from the shadows of the staircase.

Three pairs of eyes turned toward you.

Powder. Sevika. Silco.

And suddenly, you were hyper-aware of yourself.

Powder tilted her head, ever-curious, her fingers idly fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. Sevika with an empty glass in her hand — being the person who had laughed before — let out something close to a scoff — more amused than annoyed, though you could see the sharp gleam of interest in her eyes.

But Silco...

Silco was different.

His expression remained composed, that usual mask of calculated indifference, as if your presence was nothing out of the ordinary. But you knew him too well. You noticed the minute widening of his sharp blue eye, the way his body stiffened ever so slightly. You saw how, in an instant, his entire focus shifted, as if the rest of the room had ceased to exist.

He was watching you now, truly watching.

Silco was dressed entirely in black, an imposing figure draped in darkness. His heavy overcoat, made of thick, luxurious fabric, fell over his shoulders with effortless elegance, its weight amplifying the sharp silhouette of his frame. Beneath it, a richly embroidered waistcoat clung to his torso, the intricate patterns woven in deep crimson and burnished gold. The swirling arabesques traced across the fabric, reinforcing the aristocratic aesthetic of his attire.

Black gloves encased his fingers, their smooth leather barely creasing as his hands flexed at his sides. And then, there was it—the half-mask.

A stark, unyielding white, covering the left side of his face. The porcelain-like surface was smooth and rigid, concealing the ruined skin beneath while paradoxically drawing attention to the haunting brilliance of his orange iris. The contrast was striking—one half of him veiled in pale perfection, the other raw, exposed, and piercing in its intensity.

He looked like a specter. A monarch in mourning. A devil wearing the guise of nobility. And right now, all of that intensity—all of him—was fixated on you.

Silco didn't speak—not at first. Instead, he stepped forward, until he reached the base of the staircase. Then, without hesitation, he extended a hand toward you. An invitation. A silent command.

The flickering of the bar lights caught on the sharp angles of his face, casting half of it in shadow, the other half illuminated just enough for you to see the quiet intensity in his gaze. That mismatched stare—cool calculation in one eye, searing ember in the other—pinned you in place, a wordless demand that sent something shivering down your spine.

You hesitated for only a fraction of a second. Then, slowly, you placed your hand in his.

Even through the smooth leather of his glove, you could feel the warmth beneath—the undeniable heat of him. It wasn't just physical; it was something deeper. A fire that had burned you before, in ways you couldn't name, and yet, you let it consume you now without resistance.

As you descended the steps, Silco's grip remained firm, unwavering, a tether grounding you to him as the rest of the world faded. There was something intoxicating in the way he held you—possessive without pressure, a silent declaration that he would lead, and you would follow.

The moment your foot touched the last step, he moved.

In one fluid motion, his arm curled around your lower back, guiding you seamlessly into his orbit. There was no space left between you—no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just the press of his body against yours, the faint scent of smoke and burnt gunpowder clinging to him, the unrelenting pull of a force as inevitable as gravity itself.

Then, Silco finally turned his attention to Sevika.

"Ensure everything stays in order while I'm gone and stay away from the gambling tables tonight."

Sevika gave a single nod, accepting the command swiftly and without argument. But you saw the flicker of tension in her jaw, the slight tightening of her lips. You knew exactly why. Silco had just denied her one of her greatest vices—and Sevika loved to gamble. Silco, however, had already moved on, his gaze shifting to the small figure lingering nearby.

"Don't blow anything up. And go back to your room, you're not wandering around the bar at this hour."

"But—" Powder started, her voice already edging toward a protest.

Silco was faster.

"Sevika."

That was all it took. No elaboration. No further instruction. Just a name. And somehow, it was enough.

There was an unspoken understanding between them, a silent efficiency that needed no further words. In an instant, Powder was plucked off the ground with effortless ease, as if she weighed nothing at all. Sevika slung her over one shoulder like a sack of restless cargo.

Powder, predictably, did not go quietly.

"Hey! Put me down!" She twisted in Sevika's grasp, her limbs flailing, her blue braids whipping through the air as she squirmed like a feral cat caught in a too-tight hold.

Sevika barely spared her a glance, already carrying her toward the exit.

"Try not to claw my eyes out this time, kid."

Powder growled in frustration, her tiny fists beating against Sevika's shoulder in protest.

The man beside you—Silco—watched the scene with nothing more than mild amusement, exhaling softly through his nose. He didn't seem particularly concerned with the struggle unfolding in front of him, as if this was just another routine occurrence.

Then, as if Powder's tantrum was nothing more than background noise, he turned his attention back to Sevika, his voice smooth, controlled.

"Make sure the new instructions reach Singed today."

Sevika gave a brief nod, her movements efficient even as she adjusted her grip on the wriggling child. When the little one turned to face Silco and met that stern, reprimanding gaze, she simply accepted her fate. There was no protest, no attempt at negotiation—just a resigned sigh as she allowed Sevika to usher her away toward the staircase.

You watched as they passed, Powder peeking at you over Sevika's broad shoulder. A mischievous glint sparked in her eyes before she formed a tiny gun with her fingers and mimed shooting. You gasped dramatically, clutching your heart as if she had struck a fatal blow.

Her grin widened before she disappeared upstairs.

Then, without a word, Silco raised a hand and made a simple, dismissive motion. The few men lingering around the bar immediately obeyed, slipping out into the streets without hesitation. Within moments, the room was empty. Silent.

Leaving only him and you.

Silco turned his attention back to you, his presence suffocating in its intensity. He reached for you, gloved fingers brushing your waist as he guided your body to stand directly in front of him. His touch wasn't forceful, but there was no mistaking the command in it. He wanted you here—precisely here, within his reach, within his grasp.

His hands moved with a quiet deliberation as he swept your hair aside, the leather of his gloves cool against your heated skin. A glint of violet caught your eye, and before you could react, he was fastening your necklace around your throat. The gemstone at its center shimmered with a deep, rich purple—the only vivid color against his otherwise monochromatic attire. It didn't match anything you wore.

But you didn't care.

Silco's fingers moved swiftly as he secured the clasp, but they didn't leave you once the task was done. Instead, they lingered.

One hand descended, tracing over the curve of your waist, his touch a whisper of leather and heat against the firm structure of your corset. Slowly his palm skimmed lower, following the shape of your body, fingers pressing just enough to make you aware of every place he touched. It was a touch both torturous and indulgent, as if savoring the feel of you beneath his hands.

The other remained firm at your waist, holding you in place, keeping you right where he wanted you.

His gloved fingers trailed downward, exploring the slit in your dress, just barely grazing the soft skin of your thigh. A tease. A silent promise. And still, his grip on your waist tightened, a reminder—

You weren't going anywhere.

"You look sinfully divine, dove."

Silco's voice was a low murmur against your skin, the warmth of his breath sending a delicious shiver down your spine. "It's almost an outrage, really, allowing those damned Topsiders the right to see you like this."

You laughed softly, tilting yourself further into him, letting the rich scent of lingering tobacco, worn leather, and a metallic note of burnt gunpowder or rust that clung to him invade your senses.

"Weren't you the one saying you wanted to show me off?"

"I've changed my mind."

His grip on you shifted. One hand stayed firm on your waist, keeping you close, but the other slid upward with a languid sort of dominance. The smooth leather of his glove brushed over your throat, fingers pressing just enough to coax a response from you. The faintest pressure—not enough to constrict, not yet—but enough to make you hyperaware of his touch.

Your breath hitched. Your lashes fluttered shut. Your lips parted slightly, instinctively.

He hummed in satisfaction, the sound reverberating deep in his chest.

"I wonder..." His fingers flexed against your throat, tilting your chin up just enough that you could feel the sharp edge of his smirk ghosting over your skin. "Just how late we'd be if I bent you over the bar right now..."

As if to prove a point, Silco moved. Not away from you—never that—but forward, pressing you against the bar counter. The impact wasn't harsh, but it was enough to knock a sharp breath from your lungs, leaving you momentarily caught between the unyielding wood and the even less forgiving presence of the man behind you.

"Don't you dare ruin this dress."

"I'll buy you another."

His reply was smooth, effortless, barely a concern—because of course, in Silco's mind, anything could be replaced. Anything but you.

His lips found the exposed skin of your neck, the heat of his breath contrasting with the cool leather still gloved over his hands. His mouth didn't simply linger; it wandered, trailing along the curve of your neck before his teeth scraped against sensitive flesh. Not quite a bite, but the promise of one. A warning. A temptation.

"Silco."

You injected as much authority into your voice as you could, a firm reprimand meant to reel him back in.

And, surprisingly, it worked.

Silco released you—just enough to let you breathe, though his grip on your lower back remained. Always in control. Always ensuring that even when you thought you had space, you never truly did. His other hand slipped beneath the folds of his heavy overcoat, reaching for something.

A flicker of steel caught the dim light.

His dagger.

Without a word, he handed it to you.

"We're walking into a viper's nest, dove." His voice was low, even, but beneath the smooth cadence lay something else. A warning.

You took the blade without hesitation, flipping it between your fingers before slipping it down into the strap of your stocking. The weight of it was familiar, reassuring.

"And you?"

Silco merely shifted his overcoat slightly to the side. From the folds of dark fabric, the polished barrel of his pistol gleamed in the shadows. A silent answer. You exhaled, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. 

"Don't leave my side. Understood?" His voice was steady, measured—but beneath that even tone, there was something else. Not quite worry, but something close. A weight behind the words that made your stomach twist.

You nodded. Of course, you understood. That much was obvious.

The two of you were walking into enemy territory without any guarantee of what the night would bring. A Friday night gala—glittering chandeliers, delicate crystal glasses filled to the brim with aged wine, laughter laced with thinly veiled malice. The aristocracy thrived on theatrics, feeding off scandal and intrigue as if it were their lifeblood. And where there was power, where there were secrets swirling beneath silk and velvet, tragedy was never far behind.

A ballroom was an epicenter for disaster. You just hoped it wouldn't end in bloodshed because you'd hate to ruin such a beautiful dress.

[...]

Classical music filled the air, the sound of a live orchestra swelling and echoing through the gilded walls. The melody was rich, sweeping—elegant in a way that made the very air hum with sophistication. And yet, despite the grandeur of the performance, you barely recognized half of the instruments being played.

The music wrapped around the room like a silken veil, muting the murmur of voices beneath it. The gathering was small but meticulously curated, the kind of exclusive affair where wealth was measured not in numbers but in the subtlety of extravagance. Dresses and suits adorned every figure in sight, each piece undoubtedly worth more than the mansion itself. Even the most insignificant details—the golden embroidery on a sleeve, the hand-painted porcelain on the banquet tables—screamed opulence.

And the masks—the masks.

A quiet competition had taken shape among the attendees, an unspoken battle to outshine one another. Every glance you cast across the room revealed something even more ostentatious than before—filigree twisted into delicate vines, gemstones embedded into polished ivory, feathers extending high like plumes of a peacock. And you hadn't even descended into the main hall yet.

White and gold. Everywhere.

Piltover's colors, proudly displayed in every archway, every drape, every perfectly polished floor tile. The people, too, were adorned in them, their presence a living extension of the city's vanity.

And then there was Silco.

A black mark on an immaculate canvas. A shadow in a sea of pristine light.

He stood out effortlessly, his presence a deliberate contrast against the uniform splendor of Piltover's elite. Dressed in his usual darkness, he moved with the calm assurance of a man who belonged—or perhaps one who did not care whether he belonged at all. The weight of disapproving stares settled upon him like whispers behind a closed door, but if he noticed, he gave no indication.

His hand rested firmly at the small of your back, a constant, grounding presence as he guided you deeper into the lion's den.

Where others averted their eyes in quiet submission to Piltover's judgment, Silco met every sneering glance with an unwavering stare, his chin tilted just slightly higher, his expression unreadable save for the glint of defiance in his eye.

Prideful. Unapologetic. Unshaken.

And though you could feel the weight of their disdain pressing against you like a heavy velvet curtain, Silco moved forward without hesitation. And you—held against him, caught in the current of his presence—followed.

"Why is the decor so... Piltoveresque?" you murmured, your voice low as you and Silco came to a halt near one of the grand marble columns, safely tucked away from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears. "Aren't the hosts from Noxus? I expected something more... dark. More imposing."

Silco exhaled through his nose—something just shy of a chuckle—as he studied the opulent surroundings with the same detached scrutiny as one might afford a chessboard. His voice, when he finally spoke, carried that familiar academic tone, as if he were indulging you with a lesson rather than merely answering your question.

"To put the guests at ease."

You turned your head to look at him, curious.

"It's a subtle manipulation, really." he continued, absently adjusting the cuff of his glove. "The moment you present an environment that echoes the familiarity of those you wish to influence, they become more inclined to let their guard down. A space that exists outside their comfort zone breeds awareness, tension. If the décor were distinctly Noxian, they would be far too conscious of their surroundings. Too aware of where they stand."

Your lips pressed together as you considered his words. A simple yet effective strategy.

If you thought about it, it made perfect sense—especially given the nature of the gathering. Everyone in attendance was from Piltover. Everyone except for the two of you, of course. There were others, like Silco, who would see through this carefully curated illusion of warmth and hospitality, but the majority? The majority were too absorbed in their own self-importance to notice anything beyond their upturned noses.

Piltover's arrogance would be its inevitable downfall.

And that thought, above all else, was almost entertaining.

The sharp call of a voice announcing the arrival of a guest caught your attention, its echo carrying across the room like the strike of a bell.

From where you stood, you watched as the young herald—tasked with announcing titles and names—leaned in, murmuring something to the two men before him. Their backs were turned to you, but even so, you could make out the elegant cut of their attire, the sharpness of their silhouettes.

One was tall and broad-shouldered, his posture confident, a presence that commanded attention even in stillness. The other stood beside him, his frame leaner, a slight tilt to his stance that betrayed the reliance on the cane in his hand.

Then, the names rang out.

"Jayce, of House Talis, and his partner, Viktor."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the room, heads turning toward the top of the staircase. Your gaze flicked across the gathered crowd until it landed on one in particular.

A woman.

Dark skin illuminated by the warm glow of the chandeliers. Black curly hair twisted into elegant ropes, golden cuffs adorning her hairline, catching the light like scattered embers. She wore gold—bold, provocative, yet meticulously restrained. Every detail of her appearance was purposeful, a calculated balance of allure and authority. A striking beauty. One you recognized immediately.

Of course you did.

You had been instructed to memorize the faces of every Councilor of Piltover as part of your training. It had been drilled into you with the same precision as combat stances and pressure points—Know their names. Their allegiances. Their weaknesses.

The young Medarda approached the two men, though it was clear from the start where her attention lay. She spoke primarily to the taller, more imposing figure, completely disregarding his companion, who stood just beside him. If the slight tilt of his head was anything to go by, he was accustomed to this—being overlooked, existing in the shadow of someone more commanding.

Intrigued, you studied him more closely.

A white-skinned, brown-haired human with a scrawny build. His posture, though compromised by the cane he leaned on, was not entirely weak. His back remained straight, his chin lifted, and there was a quiet confidence in the way he carried himself, despite his apparent introversion.

And then, as if sensing your gaze, he turned his head toward you.

Your eyes met.

He wore a dark blue mask, symmetrical to his face, its design simple yet refined. But that did little to distract from his eyes—the sharpness in them, the intelligence lurking beneath the reserved exterior.

The moment was fleeting.

Before anything could be exchanged—before you could read deeper into the man behind the mask—Silco's hand was at your back once more, guiding you toward the staircase. You followed his lead, but your awareness lingered. You caught sight of the young herald tilting his head toward Silco, listening intently to whatever words were being murmured between them. He gave a slight nod in response. Then, as Silco extended a hand toward you, the young man cleared his throat.

"The Baron and Baroness of Zaun."

The title rang out, reverberating through every inch of the grand hall, wrapping itself around you like a noose before snapping back with the force of a whip.

You had heard Silco call you that once before—during the meeting with Marcus—but you had assumed it was nothing more than a calculated theatrical choice, a tool to manipulate the conversation in his favor. A momentary fabrication.

But now?

Now, that same title was being announced as truth.

A ripple of silence passed over the crowd before the weight of countless eyes crashed down upon you.

Zaunites regarded you with scrutiny, measuring, evaluating, weighing their judgment in quiet contemplation. But the eyes of Piltover? Those were different. Oppressive. Unforgiving. They bore down on you with the distinct sharpness of a blade pressed against your throat, staring as if you and Silco were nothing more than unwelcome intruders in their pristine world. Filth dragged in from the undercity, parading in stolen titles and borrowed elegance.

You had never been under such a blinding, suffocating spotlight before. Your breath caught, tension creeping up your spine like ice-cold fingers.

But then—

A hand squeezed yours, grounding you.

Silco.

You turned to him, and the moment your gaze met his, the rising tightness in your chest eased. His eyes—cool, steady, unshaken—held yours with quiet assurance. There was no hesitation in his grip, no flicker of uncertainty in his expression. He wasn't fazed by their stares, their judgment, their barely concealed disdain.

And if he wasn't?

Then neither were you.

You inhaled slowly, gathering yourself as he guided you forward, step by step, leading you down the grand staircase— descending together as if this had always been your rightful place.

You passed by the small trio you had been observing. The tallest of the three offered Silco a polite nod through the pristine white of his mask, a silent acknowledgment exchanged in the space of a heartbeat. The Medarda—adorned with a luxurious golden mask that only sharpened the already cutting edge of her gaze—assessed you both with quiet intrigue, her expression unreadable. The third, however, made no such effort for decorum.

His stare lingered on you, an unsettling weight that crawled along your skin like fingers trailing over silk. There was something deeply disquieting about his attention, not in the way a predator watches prey, but in the way an alchemist watches a volatile reaction unfold in his hands—expectant. Before you could decide how to feel about it, his interest shifted, drawn back into whatever his companion had murmured in his ear.

Silco wasted no time leading you through the ballroom, weaving through the sea of bodies with practiced ease. He guided you to a strategic vantage point—near a wide, arched window that stretched almost from floor to ceiling, its glass polished to perfection.

From there, the City of Progress sprawled before you, a sea of golden lights extending far beyond what the eye could capture. The glow of innovation pulsed through its veins, illuminating every towering spire and winding street, each glimmering like a promise of power and possibility. Above, the sky stretched vast and endless, constellations scattered like shattered diamonds, while the moon stood high and unyielding, a silent observer to the night's grand spectacle.

You were so caught in the sight of it all that you almost didn't notice when Silco pressed a glass into your hand.

The deep red of the wine caught the light as you swirled it, watching the liquid cling to the sides of the glass before lifting it slightly toward your nose. A precaution. A habit. The sharp, rich aroma filled your senses, dark berries and oak laced with the unmistakable bite of expensive alcohol. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Satisfied, you took a small sip, letting the warmth bloom across your tongue, sinking low into your chest. Perhaps it would give you the courage to say what had been weighing on your tongue since the moment you heard that title.

"You called me Baroness."

It wasn't quite a question, yet not quite an acceptance either. Your voice was measured, but the weight of the title coiled around your ribs like a vice.

Silco didn't hesitate.

"It's an appropriate title for your current position."

So simple. So matter-of-fact. As though it didn't shift something fundamental between you.

You studied him, searching for some indication of intent. A smirk, perhaps, some flicker of amusement in his sharp features. But he offered nothing. Just certainty. Confidence. As if the thought had never been up for debate in the first place. If he noticed the gravity of his words, he didn't show it. Or perhaps he did and simply chose not to acknowledge it. Either way, you felt it.

This wasn't just a title.

This was a shift in hierarchy.

A change in standing.

To be called Silco's whore was one thing. An insult, a weapon meant to demean. It carried no weight, no consequence, merely the vitriol of those too afraid to confront him directly.

But baroness... his baroness...

That was something else entirely. That was power. A claim. A role with meaning, with purpose. A position that, once given, could not simply be revoked without consequence.

You wanted to press him for more. To demand the reasoning behind such a choice of words. But instead, you drowned the question in another sip of wine, letting its warmth coil down your throat as you swallowed the implications along with it.

Your fingers tightened around the stem of your glass as you spoke again, voice lower this time, careful. Controlled. But there was no mistaking the quiet frustration simmering beneath it.

"But why choose those particular titles to introduce us, Silco?" Your gaze flicked to his, searching, demanding. "Now we're the center of attention. I thought the plan was to know your enemy, not to offer yourself to them on a silver platter."

Silco showed no sign of concern. If anything, he looked positively at ease, sipping from his own glass as his gaze lazily swept over the gathered elite. The half-mask he wore did an excellent job of obscuring his expressions, leaving only the sharp gleam of his uncovered eye to betray the quiet calculations unfolding behind it.

"That's where you're mistaken, dove."

His voice was smooth, unaffected, as if he were merely humoring a naïve inquiry.

"The best way to operate in a place like this isn't to shrink into the background, it's to give these vultures something to talk about." He gestured vaguely, swirling the deep red wine in his glass before taking another unhurried sip. "Think about it. If you were one of them, wouldn't you be curious? Wouldn't you wonder why someone from Zaun was standing in this very room? What someone from that wretched, discarded undercity could have possibly done to catch the attention of an organization outside of Piltover, enough to be invited?"

As if to punctuate his point, Silco made a deliberately elegant motion with his hand, acknowledging a couple approaching with polite smiles and watchful eyes.

"Curiosity." he murmured, almost to himself, "Is what drives scientists and the ambitious alike. And lucky for us..." his lips curled just slightly, "We're surrounded by both."

The couple arrived, exchanging greetings laced with the thin veneer of civility. You watched with veiled amusement as Silco eased into the conversation, donning the facade of a charismatic diplomat with unnerving ease.

And just like that, the game began.

[...]

The night had been a sea of conversation, each exchange laced with veiled intentions, subtle barbs designed to provoke, and negotiations shrouded in pleasantries. Silco had introduced himself as an industrialist from Zaun, a man whose chemical advancements had reshaped the undercity and earned him the title of baron. It wasn't exactly a lie—but it wasn't the whole truth, either.

And you? You had been presented as his adorable fiancée. The first time he said it, your face burned so hot you were certain it had turned as red as a Piltover noble's finest wine. But you had played the part well, slipping into the role as seamlessly as if it were another mask to wear. 

Throughout the evening, you had met an array of scientists and industrialists, individuals of influence but not true power. No politicians had sought Silco's company, nor had he seemed particularly interested in seeking theirs. The conversations were a careful dance of veiled intentions, light provocations designed to irritate or test, and negotiations that held more weight in what was left unsaid than in what was spoken aloud.

There had been only one interaction of note—a woman draped in crimson silk, her face obscured by an elaborate mask shaped like the beak of a raven. She had introduced herself as one of the event's organizers. Noxian.

The exchange had been brief, almost perfunctory. A polite acknowledgment of Silco's presence, a few carefully chosen words hinting at a possible commercial arrangement. Not an offer. Not yet. Just enough to confirm what Silco had already suspected. They were watching him. And, more importantly, they were curious about Shimmer.

A pause settled over the conversation, a lull in the murmur of voices around you. And then— Low and resonant, the first note of a cello cut through the air. It did not demand attention; it commanded it.

The sound unfurled slowly, its depth sinking into the very bones of the room, each vibration lingering in the grand chandeliers overhead, in the polished marble beneath your feet. The melody built upon itself, bold yet intricate, a symphony of shadows and grandeur. Strings wove together, a delicate interplay of tension and release, a harmony that balanced on the edge of something haunting, something intoxicating.

Silco turned to you then, his movement as fluid as the music. One hand extended, his fingers gloved in black.

"I believe we can allow ourselves a slight distraction."

There was something in his tone, in the gleam of his uncovered eye—a challenge, an invitation. A slow smile found its way to your lips. Without hesitation, you placed your hand in his, allowing his grip to tighten just slightly. Around you, other couples had already taken their positions, slipping effortlessly into the rhythm, but the moment Silco led you onto the floor, it was as if the rest of the room faded.

As Silco positioned you both for the waltz, you tilted your head, amusement dancing in your eyes.

"I didn't take you for a dancer." you mused, allowing him to guide you effortlessly. "Who would have thought that the cruel and terrifying Eye of Zaun had such a hidden talent?"

Silco's fingers flexed slightly against your waist, his good eye glinting with something unreadable.

"There are still parts of me you have yet to unravel, dove."

The first movement was graceful.

Silco guided you effortlessly, his hand firm at your waist, his fingers pressing just enough to direct but never force. The music swelled around you both, the deep, dramatic strokes of the cello setting the rhythm, dictating every shift, every step. He moved with precision, controlled and calculated—just as he was in every other aspect of his life. Yet there was an elegance to it, a certain lethality in the way he led you across the floor, as if the waltz itself were merely another kind of battlefield.

His touch was light yet commanding, the glide of his palm against the curve of your waist, as if he wanted to make clear his possession over you. With every step, every turn, you could feel him—his presence, his warmth, the way his breath ghosted against your temple when he leaned in to murmur instructions only you could hear.

"Don't think... let me take care of everything." His voice was low, intimate. A reminder, a demand.

And you did. You just followed his lead, matching his steps, your body responding to his like it was meant to, like it belonged there. The world around you faded; there were no curious eyes, no whispered judgments—only Silco, only the dance, only the quiet, growing tension coiling tighter between you.

Then, he spun you.

The movement was sudden but fluid—his hand guiding yours, sending you into a turn so seamless it felt as though you were weightless for a fleeting second. Your skirts flared around you, the air rushed past your skin, and just as quickly as he had let you go, he pulled you back.

You barely had a moment to breathe before you found yourself flush against him, your back pressing into his chest, your hands instinctively catching his arms to steady yourself. The music swelled, deep and intoxicating, and you swore you could feel the vibration of each note reverberating through his body, through yours.

Silco didn't release you immediately.

His grip was possessive, his palm sliding lower, fingers splayed across the curve of your waist, teasingly close to your hipbone. An innocent touch, one that lingered just long enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand, still clad in that ever-present black glove, skimmed the sensitive skin of your inner arm, fingertips barely ghosting over your pulse as he led you. Slow. Calculated. A deliberate unraveling.

He was guiding you, yes—but not just through the dance.

"You've done this before." The words slipped from your lips before you could stop them, your voice steadier than the uneven rhythm of your pulse.

Silco leaned in, breath warm against the shell of your ear, close enough that you could feel the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

"Observant as always, dove."

And then, without warning, he turned you again. This time a spin on its own axis.

The world blurred for half a second as he spun you effortlessly, his grip unrelenting, pulling you back against him before you could catch your bearings. Your back met his chest agaim, firm and unyielding, his arm wrapping around your waist, anchoring you against him. The movement was seamless, natural—like this had been the destination all along.

A shiver coursed through you as his lips brushed the bare skin of your shoulder. Not quite a kiss, not quite an accident. A mere breath of contact, featherlight, but enough to send fire licking up your spine.

The waltz had shifted.

It was no longer a polite exchange of steps, no longer a performance for the elite gathered around. It had become something else entirely—something intimate, something indulgent, something far too personal.

Silco's hand trailed along your ribs as he guided you into another turn, the touch so infuriatingly delicate that your body betrayed you, leaning into him, craving more. He pulled you closer. Closer. The space between you vanished, swallowed whole by the tension crackling like a live wire, electric and sharp, stretching to its breaking point.

Your pulse pounded against your throat, your breath unsteady as he steered you through the slow, heated dance. Every step was a temptation, every shift in movement a provocation. He was toying with you, savoring the way you responded to his touch, the way your fingers gripped his shoulder just a little too tightly, as if grounding yourself.

Another turn. Another breath of his lips against your skin. Another slow, torturous pull closer. You exhaled sharply, only then realizing you had been holding your breath.Silco, of course, had noticed.

The bastard was smiling.

The curve of his lips betrayed him, the barest hint of amusement tugging at the corners—a knowing smirk that sent heat curling in your stomach. Not smug, not mocking. No, this was something else. The kind of satisfaction that came from control, from setting the perfect trap and watching his prey step willingly into it.

And you had.

You danced as if you were the only two in the room.

The black of Silco's attire stood in perfect contrast to the white of your dress—two opposing forces locked together in an unspoken battle of dominance and surrender. The floor beneath your feet felt weightless, as though you weren't truly touching it at all, as though the world existed only in the space between his hands and yours.

The music swelled, rising in tempo, a feverish, hypnotic rhythm that seeped into your bones. Silco moved with it, with you, every motion seamless, each turn effortless. His grip at your waist was firm, commanding, fingers pressing just enough to remind you who led this dance. 

He turned you with purpose, the rush of movement sending the hem of your gown flaring out like a whisper of silk. And when he pulled you back, the impact was intoxicating—your body flush against his, the warmth of him bleeding through the fine layers of fabric separating you.

Politics, alliances, whispered schemes—none of it mattered in this moment. It was only the two of you. The swell of the cello, the thrill of movement and the quiet surrender to something dangerously, beautifully inevitable.

Silco's gaze burned into yours, piercing, consuming. It was relentless, unyielding—an invisible chain wrapped around your throat, stealing your breath with its weight. And yet, you craved it. Drank it in like it was the very air keeping you alive.

A hand at your waist, firm. A pull. A command.

Your body answered before your mind could, drawn effortlessly into the fluid, hypnotic rhythm he set. He led with precision. A teasing press of his fingers here, a brief, intoxicating brush of his chest against yours there. It was a dance, yes, but it was also something else. Something darker.

You hadn't noticed when the other couples began to step back, giving you space, watching.

You hadn't cared.

Because Silco hadn't cared.

And if he did not yield to the audience, then neither would you.

The air around you shifted, thick with intrigue, laced with something unspoken but palpable. You could feel their eyes, hear the hushed murmurs—the curiosity, the scandal, the shock. Oh, they watched. How could they not? You had become a spectacle, something intoxicating to behold, a performance neither of you had intended to give but delivered effortlessly.

And Silco—he knew it.

Knew exactly what he was doing. Knew exactly what you had become together.

He turned you sharply, stealing your breath, and before you could recover, pulled you back—hard. Your back slammed against his chest, the force sending a jolt down your spine, your pulse thrumming wildly as his gloved hand came up, fingers splaying over your collarbone. His breath was hot against your ear, but he said nothing. He didn't need to.

Your lips parted in what could have been a gasp or a slight sigh.

A mistake.

Because Silco noticed.

His fingers traced lower, a ghost of a touch against your pulse, feeling the frantic beat beneath your skin. The bastard was testing you, measuring how far he could push before you shattered completely.

The cello swelled, a final, desperate crescendo. And then—the last note rang out.

Silco spun you, one last time.

The world blurred around you, a dizzying whirlwind of silk and shadow as your skirts flared with the force of his lead. The movement was sharp, precise, a show of control as much as grace. And then—his grip tightened. The spin ended abruptly, seamlessly, as he caught you, dipping you back into a perfect, deliberate arch.

A soft gasp escaped your lips.

The breath you had been holding shattered into uneven pants, your chest rising and falling beneath the suffocating confines of your corset. Your fingers dug into his shoulders—seeking stability, seeking him—as his hold remained unyielding, solid, keeping you suspended there, trapped in the moment.

He didn't lift you right away.

No, Silco lingered.

His grip at your waist was firm, the leather of his gloves smooth against the corset and gown. His other hand, still locked with yours, twitched slightly, the tension in his fingers betraying him. You could feel the heat of his breath—closer than it should have been. His chest, rising and falling just as unsteadily as yours, pressed against you, the space between you a mere suggestion rather than a reality.

And then—he pulled you upright, too close, too fast. Your body met his in a swift, intoxicating collision.

For a second, neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed.

The music swelled around you, the final echoes of the cello fading into the murmurs of the crowd. But here, in this moment, there was only him. Only the press of his body, the heat of it, the way his fingers—still resting at your waist—curled just slightly, possessively, as if claiming his prize.

His eye, dark and half-lidded, bore into yours.

A shudder ran through you, unbidden, as you felt the rapid beat of his pulse against your own. The sharp inhale he took did nothing to steady him, nor did it steady you. The tension between you was a living thing, clawing, breathing, demanding.

Silco was just as breathless as you.

There was no applause for you both, and if there had been, you wouldn't have heard it. One second, you were standing in the middle of the grand hall, breathless, staring into each other's eyes, and the next—Silco was dragging you away. His grip around your wrist was tight, almost bruising, as dragging you down the dimly lit corridors of that vast estate. 

His black overcoat billowed dramatically behind him with each hurried step. You struggled to keep up, the flowing layers of your dress threatening to trip you, but Silco didn't slow down. He didn't even look back. He moved with single-minded purpose.

The moment he found a door—unlocked—he shoved it open and pulled you inside with little care for grace. The air in the dimly lit room was thick with dust and perfume, a forgotten lounge or study, abandoned in the wake of the event outside. But you barely had time to register your surroundings before your back was pressed against the door, the wood cool against your flushed skin, and Silco was on you.

His lips crashed against yours in a desperate, claiming kiss, all teeth and hunger. He wasn't gentle—no, he kissed you like a man starved, like someone who had spent the entire evening barely restraining himself, his patience now worn to nothing. His gloved hands cupped your jaw, fingers digging in as though he feared you might pull away. But you didn't. You couldn't.

Your hands found the fastenings of his overcoat, fumbling with the clasps in a rush to rid him of the heavy garment. The second the last one came undone, the fabric slid from his shoulders, landing at your feet in a soft, weighty heap. Silco, however, didn't stop—he was already undoing the ribbon holding his mask in place, fingers quick and precise. He tossed it aside, letting the pristine white porcelain find its way to the floor, uncaring. Your mask followed the same fate.

His mismatched gaze burned into yours, pupils blown wide, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. There was something raw in the way he looked at you, something dangerous, something reverent — like he was starving, like you were the only thing that could possibly satisfy the ache inside him.

And then he kissed you again, deeper this time, slower but no less intense, his fingers trailing down the length of your throat, brushing over the pulse hammering beneath your skin. His other hand ghosted down your waist, over the curve of your hip, fingers toying with the high slit of your dress.

Doing that... there... with the danger of anyone just walking in was madness. Dangerous. Addictive.

And neither of you cared.

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Silco's hand slid down to grip the back of her thigh, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he effortlessly lifted her leg. He guided it to wrap around his hip, the motion causing the slit of her dress to ride up even higher and expose the creamy skin of her inner thigh.

At the same time, his other hand slid up to cup the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair as he tilted her head to the side, baring the slender column of her throat to his hungry gaze. Silco leaned down, his lips brushing against the hammering pulse at the base of her neck, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of her skin.

He leaned in to press his lips against the sensitive flesh behind her ear, his breath hot and heavy against her skin as he murmured. "You feel what you do to me, don't you? How much I want you?"

His hips pressed forward, the hard, rigid length of his cock grinding against her core, separated only by the flimsy barrier of his trousers and her panties.

Silco's lips trailed along the column of her throat, his teeth grazing the delicate skin, his tongue washing over the marks he left in his wake. His hand slid from her thigh to cup the curve of her ass, squeezing the firm, supple flesh, as he held her in place, pinning her against the wall with the weight of his body.

"I want to take you, right here, right now." Silco growled, his voice rough with need. "And I know you wouldn't deny me that... You want that too, you greedy little thing."

Silco chuckled darkly, the sound rumbling through his chest as he felt her body tremble and shudder against him, heard the desperate grunt of confirmation that spilled from her lips. He could see the way her eyes were glazed over, her pupils blown wide with desire, her cheeks flushed a pretty pink. She was lost, utterly consumed by the pleasure he was giving her... and it only served to inflame his own hunger.

With a wicked grin, Silco mimed a sudden lunge, his hips jerking forward as if he were about to sheath himself inside her slick, scorching heat. At the same time, he leaned in close, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, his voice a low, demanding growl.

"Come on, dove... Don't be shy now. I want to hear you... tell me what you want."

Silco nuzzled against the soft, fragrant skin of her throat, his stubble rasping deliciously against the delicate flesh as he continued to grind his hardening length against her core in a maddeningly constant rhythm. He could feel her body responding eagerly to his touch, her hips undulating instinctively against his own as if seeking more of that delicious friction.

"Please..."

At her breathless, wanton plea, Silco paused, his hand returning to hold her thigh as he pulled back just enough to meet her gauze with a wicked, expectant grin. His mismatched eyes glinted with mischief and a dark, hungry light as they searched her face, taking in every minute detail of her pleasure-drunk expression.

"Please..." Silco repeated, his voice a low, mocking drawl as he arched one eyebrow. "You can do better than that. I figured you'd have learned some manners by now, with all the time we've spent together."

Silco's hand slid up to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing over her kiss-swollen lower lip as he tilted her face up towards his own. 

"Beg for it properly. Let me hear that sweet voice of yours, all pretty and breathless, as you ask me to fuck you. Give me a real reason to give you what you so desperately want." He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against hers as he whispered, "Go on... I'm listening."

She hesitates, but only for a second.

"Please fuck me... sir."

Silco's lips curled into a wicked, approving grin at her breathless plea, his mismatched eyes flaring with a dark, possessive light. "Good girl." he purred, his voice a low, rumbling growl of satisfaction. "Such a clever little thing, knowing just what I like to hear. You're learning your place so well."

With that, Silco released her leg, letting it drop from around his hip for just a moment as his hands moved to the waistband of his trousers. With deft, urgent motions, he flicked open the buttons, freeing his aching, throbbing cock from its confines. It sprang forth, hard and heavy, the thick shaft pulsing with need.

Soon after, Silco hooked his fingers into the delicate fabric of her panties, the flimsy lace tearing like tissue paper in his impatient hands. He ripped them away, baring her glistening, needy sex to his hungry gauze, the scent of her arousal filling the air between them.He didn't care much for her grumbling, she was probably irritated that he had ruined a perfectly good pair of panties. But her irritation quickly turned into a longing moan.

Silco positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging against her slick slit, teasing her with the promise of what was to come. He could feel the scorching heat radiating from her core, could sense how her body ached to be filled by him, to be stretched and claimed by his thick, throbbing length. 

But Silco held back, a sadist at heart, he wanted to draw out her pleasure, to make her beg and plead for his cock like the desperate little slut she was. So instead of burying himself inside her, he began to rub the head of his cock along her slit, coating himself in her slick, scorching juices.

"Fuck..." Silco groaned, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of denying them both the sweet relief they craved. "My perfect, greedy little dove, so wet and ready for me..."

For a few more tortuous seconds, Silco continued to tease and torment them both, his cock sliding along her dripping slit, coating himself in her slick arousal. The head of his cock caught on her clit with every thrust, sending jolts of electric pleasure shooting through her body, making her writhe and buck against him.

"I need you... please, sir." Her voice sounded more like a longing moan than anything else now, but Silco felt the appeal in her plea and that was enough for him.

With a low, animalistic growl, Silco could no longer deny them both the sweet relief they craved. He notched the head of his cock at her entrance and thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt inside her in one brutal, merciless stroke.

Silco gave her no time to adjust, no respite from the intense pleasure-pain of being so suddenly, thoroughly filled. He set a brutal, punishing pace, his hips slamming against hers with enough force to make the door rattle behind them. One hand gripped her thigh, holding it high and wide, while the other gripped her hip, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises.

The obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, mingling with their harsh pants and moans as Silco took his pleasure from her pliant, willing body. The wet, squelching noises of her dripping cunt being plundered only spurred him on, made him fuck into her even harder, even deeper.

He groaned as he felt her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders as she matched his brutal pace, her hips rolling and undulating to meet every one of his powerful thrusts. The way her body moved beneath him, so eager and responsive, spurred on his own lust,

Lost in the haze of pleasure, it took Silco a moment to register the single, breathless word that spilled from her lips. But when he did, he stilled instantly, his hips pausing mid-thrust as he stared down at her with a mix of confusion and wary curiosity.

"What?"

"A mirror..." she repeated in a breathless, choked voice, her head nodding to something behind Silco.

He turned his face in the direction she had indicated, his gaze landing on the mirror propped up against the far wall. The reflection that greeted him was a sight to behold — his own back and her leg hooked against his hip. The sight was erotic, almost obscene.

The idea that comes to Silco's mind is so natural that his eyes automatically try to search for something in the environment that will help him complete the plan. He easily finds a table on the wall opposite the mirror.

Silco reached down to grab both of her thighs, his large hands easily spanning their slender girth. In one smooth, effortless motion, he hoisted her legs up and wrapped them around his waist, pulling her flush against his chest. She let out a soft, gasp as she found herself suddenly lifted off her feet, her body molding to the hard planes and angles of Silco's own. 

Silco carried her over to the table, the wood creaking softly under its weight as he laid her down upon its smooth, polished surface. He took a moment to appreciate the way her hair fanned out around her, the locks stark against the dark wood, before grasping the edges of the table and dragging it across the floor until it was positioned directly in line with the mirror. 

With a wicked grin, Silco grasped her hips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he changed their position. He flipped her over onto her stomach, urging her to lean against the table's edge, her elbows and forearms braced against the smooth wood. The movement made her ass jut out — he only had to move the layers of fabric aside— a perfect target for Silco's hungry gaze and aching cock.

Silco's hand slid from her hip to wrap around her slender throat, his long fingers easily encircling the delicate column of her neck. He applied just enough pressure to make her gasp, to feel the way her pulse raced beneath his palm as he forced her chin up and her gaze towards the mirror.

"Keep your eyes on the mirror." Silco commanded, his voice a low, authoritative growl as he positioned himself at her entrance once more. "Don't you dare look away, dove... or I'll stop. And we both know you don't want that, do we?"

With a low, appreciative groan, Silco began to move once more, his hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm as he pressed forward, sheathing himself inside her welcoming heat inch by delicious inch. He kept his pace unhurried, wanting to draw out this moment.

Silco had long since stopped caring about the way he was corrupting her.

Once, perhaps, he might have entertained the thought—might have traced the trajectory of her descent with something resembling guilt. A flicker of hesitation, of consideration for what she had once been before him. But not anymore.

Not when he saw her now.

She stood before him, draped in that ethereal grace, yet steeped in the sins of man, the weight of them pressing into her skin like an ink that could never be washed away. No longer untouched. No longer something pristine. A wolf in the guise of a lamb—still soft in appearance, still so deceptively delicate, but beneath it all, that fragile exterior was nothing but a lingering echo of what she used to be.

No amount of white could ever restore the purity that had been burned away.

And if he had been one of the architects of that metamorphosis—if his hands had shaped her into what she had become—then so be it. He would take this role with pride.

Especially when she looked at him like that.

Through the reflection in the mirror, her gaze met his, and it held no trace of innocence. No naivety. There was no fear in those eyes, no hesitation. Whatever she saw in her own reflection, she did not recoil from it. She did not mourn it. No, there was something else entirely. A quiet, deliberate acceptance. A willingness that sent something dark curling inside him, possessive and raw.

He did not need to tie her down. He did not need to force her into submission. She had already chosen to be his.

His lips hovered near her ear, his breath hot against her skin as he whispered, "Look at yourself, dove. Look at what you've become."

Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths.

And that was when he knew he had made the right decision.

The orders he had given Singed had been changed for a reason. 

He needed her.

Her loyalty was already his. Now, all he had to do was remove her limitations.

She would understand. She had to understand — she would see the effort he was investing, the lengths he was willing to go to for her sake. This was no mere experiment. This was purpose.

He was doing this for her.

For a future where she could stand untethered by weakness. For Zaun.

For them.

Silco's grip on her waist tightened, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he lifted her effortlessly off the table. He held her aloft, pinning her body against his own as he began to thrust into her with deep, powerful strokes that made the table creak and shudder beneath them.

At the same time, his other hand remained wrapped around her slender throat, his thumb and forefinger brushing against her racing pulse. He could feel it fluttering wildly beneath his touch, could see the way her eyes widened and her lips parted around a silent gasp of pleasure as he filled her so deeply, so completely.

Silco kept her face fixed on the mirror, forcing her to watch as he took her, as his body thrust against hers with a primal, animalistic rhythm. He could see the way her hair began to come undone, the once neat and tidy locks now a wild, tousled mess as he fucked her with increasing fervor.

With each powerful thrust of his hips, Silco watched as her body jerked and shuddered, her breasts bouncing and swaying with the force of his movements. Her mouth hung open, her breath coming in ragged, desperate pants as she struggled to keep her eyes on their reflection, as he commanded.

Silco's eyes remained locked with her in the mirror's reflection, the intense gaze holding her captive, just as his body pinned her in place. He could see the way her expression began to change, the desperation and need in her eyes giving way to a look of pure, unadulterated bliss.

Unable to hold back any longer, Silco leaned in close, his lips brushing against the delicate shell of her ear as he whispered those two simple, yet profoundly meaningful words. "You're perfect..."

The breathless declaration seemed to be the catalyst she needed, her body stiffening and then shuddering against his own as her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave. Her head tipped back, her mouth opening in a silent scream of ecstasy as her climax ripped through her, her walls clenching and fluttering wildly around Silco's throbbing length.

The exquisite sensation of her release was enough to send Silco careening over the edge of his own, his climax hitting him with the force of a runaway train. He buried himself to the hilt inside her, his hips jerking and stuttering as he emptied himself into her willing, receptive body, painting her womb with his thick, hot seed.

Silco's fingers tightened around her throat, his grip reflexively tightening as the pleasure consumed him, his hips pumping and grinding against her own as he rode out the waves of his release. He could feel her trembling in his arms, her body going limp and pliant as the aftershocks of her own climax rolled through her.

They remained locked together like that for a long moment, their bodies joined and their eyes still holding each other's gaze in the mirror's reflection.

It felt like an eternity before either of them moved. The air in the dimly lit room was thick, heavy with the remnants of what had just transpired. Silco was the first to shift, exhaling slowly as he adjusted his trousers, smoothing down the fabric with practiced ease. His fingers ran through his hair, pushing it back into place before he bent down to retrieve the scattered remnants of their discarded clothing.

Among them, he found what remained of her undergarment—delicate fabric now little more than torn lace. Without a word, he pocketed it. A souvenir, a claim, or perhaps just a quiet indulgence. He didn't examine the reason too closely.

The voice that broke the silence was slow, thoughtful.

"Where did you learn to dance?"

Silco paused mid-motion, glancing toward the woman sprawled across the wooden table, her chest still rising and falling with the echoes of breathless exertion. She made no move to dress, no effort to conceal herself—not out of defiance, but something else. A quiet satisfaction, perhaps. A simple unwillingness to break the moment.

He considered her question for only a second before answering, the words slipping past his lips as if they had always been there, waiting.

"Jinx's mother."

The response was easy. Too easy.

"She loved to dance." he continued, his voice steady, detached in a way that only made it feel more intimate. "And when she drank enough to climb atop a table and put on a show, she would drag me into it. Even when I hated it..." a faint exhale, almost a scoff. "There was no denying her anything."

He hadn't thought about it in years. Those trivial, fleeting moments of a past that had long since been buried under blood, ambition, and revolution. And yet, for a second, he could see it—her wild laughter, the way she swayed, uninhibited, careless of who was watching. The way her hands would grab his and force him into motion while Vander laughed in the background, even when he resisted, even when his mind was elsewhere, always thinking of what came next.

Silco found himself smirking faintly at the memory, though he was careful to school his expression before it could linger. He busied himself with folding his coat over his arm, letting his hands work as his mind wandered places it shouldn't.

"Did you love her?"

Silence. ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

"She was my best friend."

That was Silco's answer.

It was simple, straightforward. And yet, the weight of it lingered between you like an unsaid truth, something deeper than the words themselves. You knew, in this context, Silco likely assumed you thought of Felicia as his lover—someone he had once loved in the way a husband loves a wife. Well, he really should love her, but not like this. But his response, vague in its essence, carried something deeper beneath the surface.

Silco did not have friends. Not truly. He resented most of his past, buried it beneath layers of hardened pragmatism and calculated distance. But not Felicia. No, she was the exception. Even now, after all these years, he still called her his best friend.

The weight of that realization sat heavy between you both, thickening the air in the dimly lit room. He did not elaborate, and you did not press him. Some things were meant to be left unspoken.

With a quiet inhale, you shifted, smoothing the fabric of your dress, fingers ghosting over where his hands had been just moments ago. The remnants of his touch still lingered against your skin, the heat of it refusing to fade so easily.

"We should go, dove. The night was not over."

Silco had already finished putting himself back together, every button fastened, every layer of clothing smoothed out into its usual meticulous perfection. Meanwhile, you were still adjusting the rumpled layers of your gown, fingers working over the creases left behind by his hands, his weight, his hunger.

"Need help?" His voice was calm, steady, but there was an edge of amusement beneath it as he secured his mask back onto his face.

"No, it's fine. Go on ahead. I just need a moment to breathe before stepping back into that place."

Silco hesitated. Just for a second. The flickering candlelight caught the sharp line of his jaw as he studied you, as if considering whether to insist on staying. But then, with a curt nod, he turned on his heel and left, his long coat sweeping behind him in a dramatic arc, vanishing through the door without another word. The moment he was gone, you exhaled, turning toward the large mirror against the wall. You looked... presentable. If someone only gave you a passing glance, they wouldn't notice much amiss. But if they lingered—if they truly looked—they would see the signs.

The faint smudge of your lipstick behind the delicate curve of your mask. Stray strands of hair that had slipped loose, framing your face in a way that was too unruly to be intentional. The way your skin still carried a flush, warmth lingering beneath the surface, betraying the ghosts of Silco's touch.

And then, of course, there was the absence of your underwear. A secret that made heat crawl up your spine every time you shifted, every time the cool air brushed against bare skin beneath the heavy fabric of your dress. You sighed, running your fingers through your hair in an attempt to regain composure, when suddenly—

The candles flickered.

And then, in unison, they snuffed out completely.

The room plunged into darkness.

You didn't hesitate. Your fingers wrapped around the hilt of the dagger hidden at your thigh, blade unsheathed in a single, fluid motion. Your muscles tensed, your breath shallow, ears straining for any sign of movement in the pitch-black silence. And then—just as suddenly as they had gone out—the flames returned, casting the room in their dim, golden glow once more.

Your heart was still hammering when your gaze instinctively flicked toward the table.

You froze.

There, resting atop the polished wood, was something that had not been there before.

A single black rose.

Part 17

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is currently the longest chapter of all, because I was truly inspired by the visuals of The Phantom of the Opera—the grandeur, the masks, the mystery of the ballroom. But look, we have some new faces in the story. It was about time they made their entrance, don’t you think? And this new status? From prostitute to baroness… close your eyes, and it almost sounds like a marriage proposal. I’ll just say one thing—buckle up. A new arc is about to begin...

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[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 15/?)

For something new to be born, something in you must die. There is no rebirth without sacrifice, no transformation without loss. The only question is: which part of you will be buried this time?

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 10,1K

Warnings: smut, resolved sexual tension, cock warming, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, Silco being a manipulator, mentions of drowning and suicide, emotional manipulation, crisis of conscience, slight hints of reader's past, Silco POV

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

Part 14

You ran until your lungs burned, until your legs trembled, until the world around you became a blurred mess of shadows and scattered lights. The air sliced down your throat like sharp blades, mixing with the metallic taste of blood you had swallowed during your escape.

You had crossed the bridge—that meant you were in Zaun, or at least close enough. You felt the impact before you could fully process what had happened. A solid, strong body blocked your path, making you stumble back.

The man in front of you was large, a true wall of muscle wrapped in simple clothing—worn blue trousers, well-fitted leather boots, a brown leather jacket thrown over a plain white shirt, and a leather pauldron on his upper right arm, marked by time and use. His hair was dark, his beard neatly trimmed, and his eyes... gray. Calculating. He carried a sack full of trinkets and old parts, something you barely registered because your mind was caught on a single detail:

He didn't speak like someone from Piltover. When he opened his mouth, his voice lacked that precise, arrogant diction of the City of Progress. His accent wasn't from there. That was enough for you to deduce that he was from Zaun.

"Hey, little one..." His voice came low, concerned. "You alright?"

Your eyes narrowed instinctively, scanning the situation. His tone seemed sincere, but you had learned the hard way that kindness could be a trap. People who looked like they wanted to help usually had hidden intentions.The man took a step forward, raising a hand in a peaceful gesture, as if dealing with a wild animal ready to bolt. 

"You need help?"

When his fingers brushed your arm—a light, hesitant touch—you flinched away, tearing yourself from the contact and sprinting off without looking back.

Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe he really did want to help. Maybe he was just an ordinary man who had seen someone bloodied in the middle of the street and felt a genuine urge to offer aid. But you couldn't afford to trust anyone. Not now.

Not with enforcers hunting you like an animal.

You pressed yourself against the wall of a building and let your body slide down until you hit the ground. The alley you had fled into was narrow, suffocating, the scent of dampness and rust filling your nose, but in that moment, it felt like a sanctuary. A false sense of safety.

Exhaustion weighed down on you, making each breath harder. The blood on your nose had already dried—it had been hours since you last used your Instinct, maybe more. Truthfully, you weren't sure how you were still conscious.

Your arm throbbed with a dull, burning pain, the bullet wound still fresh in your flesh. The damn enforcer had managed to graze you, and even though his shot had been sloppy, the projectile had still torn through your skin.

Above you, the sky stretched beyond what your eyes could reach. No longer a mere sliver of blue glimpsed through the tiny window of the containment room—now, it was an infinite sea of darkness speckled with stars, a spectacle that felt so distant from your reality.

You had never had the privilege of simply looking at the sky.

Before, there had only been dark, narrow alleyways, the metallic scent of rust and oil, the air thick with soot and broken promises of Zaun. Then came the sterile, scentless white of the Institute, a space without identity, where light was artificial and the passage of time was measured in counted heartbeats.

But here... now... the stars shone above you, indifferent, untouchable. And for a moment, the blood—on your clothes, on your hands, staining your skin and the ground around you—felt insignificant.

You still couldn't believe you had actually escaped.

Years of meticulous planning, sleepless nights spent mapping out every tiny detail, every escape route, every possibility. All those moments when you doubted this could ever happen, when you wondered if it was just the delusion of someone too broken to accept their own reality. But now... now you were free.

So why did it feel so hollow?

Freedom weighed on your shoulders like invisible chains. The air around you felt thin, like something was pressing down on your chest, making each breath shallow and painful. There was no relief, only a crushing emptiness and a quiet sorrow, sharp as a blade against your skin. You were so tired.

And the sound of the river called your name.

The dark waters moved lazily, reflecting the faint starlight—silent, inviting. They promised rest. They promised oblivion. You dragged yourself to the edge, every movement an immense effort. Your muscles screamed, your body protested, but you kept going. Just one step. One more. And then it would all be over.

But of course, it wouldn't be that easy.

You heard footsteps.

The rhythm was heavy, determined, muffled by the damp sand. Then came the sharp click of a gun being cocked—too loud in the stillness of the night, a warning that left no time to react. You turned. It was the same enforcer from before.

Persistent bastard.

The dim light revealed his grim expression, his gaze steady, resolute. He didn't hesitate, didn't issue a warning, didn't bark out orders. He simply aimed and fired. But you were already moving.

Your body crashed into his, and the sharp pain of the bullet piercing your chest was secondary—distant, unimportant compared to the brutal instinct that overtook you. Your eyes burned, and your nose bled harder, as if something inside you was breaking from the strain.

You both hit the sand together. Your fingers found his throat, and you squeezed. But humans fight to survive, and this one, in particular, didn't want to die easily.

He thrashed, tried to pry your hands off his neck, his fingers digging into your skin in a last, desperate attempt to free himself. His entire body twisted, his feet kicking up damp sand, leaving frantic, scattered marks in the ground—like a trapped animal struggling against the inevitable. You could feel his pulse beneath your fingers—fast, erratic, like a frantic drumroll before it began to slow.

He was dying.

But then something fell.

A photo slipped from his pocket, landing softly on the ground beside you. A simple image, almost mundane. The enforcer held a small baby in his arms. She had wide, bright eyes, chubby cheeks, innocent—completely unaware of how cruel the world could be. A name was scribbled in the corner.

Marcus and Ren.

Your grip loosened.

You let him go, stumbling back as if burned. Your body collapsed onto the sand, and the pain came in waves—your shoulder still bleeding, your chest burning where the bullet had torn through, your nose still dripping an endless stream of blood. You spat some onto the ground, the metallic taste coating your tongue.

Behind you, the enforcer gasped desperately, sucking in air like a drowning man breaking the surface at the last second. He scrambled backward, away from you, his eyes blown wide with pure, undiluted terror. You would never forget that look.

"Go back to Piltover..." you growled, each word heavy with exhaustion and anger. Your vision wavered, darkness creeping at the edges.

The river still called for you.

The water still promised peace.

But before you could answer the call, you added, "Your daughter doesn't deserve to grow up without a father."

The man blinked, as if struggling to process what you had just said. And then, without question, without hesitation—he obeyed. You watched him rise, stumbling over his own feet. His body still trembled, like he was on the verge of collapse, but still, he ran. Ran like a man who had just escaped death's grasp. He looked back one last time.

The fear in his eyes now was the same as it had been all those years ago.

Marcus's body was coiled tight, a spring stretched to its absolute limit. You noticed the small details that time had left on him—wrinkles that hadn't been there before, a stiffer posture, as if the weight of the world had settled onto his shoulders and never left. He even had a mustache now, a sign of maturity that did nothing to hide the nervousness in his eyes.

He remembered you.

When you mentioned to Silco that you wanted to find an enforcer named Marcus, he had raised an eyebrow, surprised, before letting out a low chuckle. "What a coincidence..." You hadn't known what kind of coincidence he meant—until you found out that Marcus was no longer just another enforcer.

He was the Sheriff of Piltover now.

A man who was supposed to represent the city's order and justice... but who, ironically, knelt before Silco. The one who not only had absolute control over Zaun but now had his fingers wrapped around Piltover's own enforcers, pulling their strings like a puppet master. The man who ruled not only the underworld but also those sworn to fight against it.

Marcus wasn't just nervous because he recognized you. He was nervous because he knew Silco had given you free rein to deal with him however you wished. And maybe, deep down, he thought you were here to finish what you started that night by the river.

As much as this whole situation unsettled you, even knowing that Silco now had access to every detail in those documents about you, it didn't disturb you as much as it should have. It was strange—you should feel uneasy, a creeping fear at the thought of him having everything at his disposal, your entire history laid bare for him to devour.

But you didn't.

Maybe because Silco had been honest when he mentioned, months ago, during your first real confrontation, that he knew more than you thought. Now, you were certain of it. And, more importantly, he hadn't used that information against you. Not yet. At the very least, it spared you the need to tell him the whole tragic little story that was your past.

"It's been a while, Marcus."

Your tone was light, almost jovial, a stark contrast to the suffocating atmosphere that filled Silco's office. The sound of your boots echoed against the floor as you approached slowly, unhurried. Marcus, on the other hand, moved along with you—an involuntary reflex, an instinct for self-preservation.

He tried to put distance between you, to keep as much space as possible, but there wasn't much room to maneuver. The office granted him no such luxury.

Poor man.

You could practically see the gears in his head turning, analyzing the situation, searching for an escape. Trapped between you and Silco... perhaps this was a nightmare for him. And judging by the silent terror in his eyes, you suspected it was the kind of nightmare he knew he wouldn't simply wake up from.

The silence between you wasn't comfortable. It was thick, stifling, as if the air itself grew heavier with every second that passed. Marcus seemed to be sinking further and further into his own ruin.

"How's Ren?"

Marcus's body went even more rigid. His daughter's name hung in the air, and you caught the exact moment his breathing grew heavier. The tension in his shoulders spiked, his fingers twitched subtly near his holster—an almost unconscious reflex. He was on edge. As expected.

"She's fine."

You tilted your head slightly, watching the sheriff. There was an extra layer of something in his voice—not just discomfort but also a flicker of poorly contained irritation. Maybe he was tired of being reminded of that day.

But you didn't care.

"That's good to hear."

Stepping forward, you shifted your weight onto one leg and crossed your arms, giving him an analytical look.

"Well, well, look at you, Marcus. From an Enforcer to a Sheriff." You whistled softly, a sound of mock astonishment. "I must say, congratulations on the promotion. Never thought that the same man would one day have a city of his own to command."

The provocation was clear, and Marcus knew it. His jaw clenched tighter, his eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Then, you turned your attention to Silco.

"Or maybe..." Your tone took on a touch of theatricality, as if you were merely musing out loud. "Maybe you had a little help from a certain someone to get there."

Silco didn't react immediately. For a moment, he simply maintained his impassive expression, but you saw it. You saw the way his brow arched in feigned surprise, as if he were truly shocked by such an accusation. An impeccable performance, as always. But then, in the subtle details of his face, you caught it. The shadow of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. He was amused.

Marcus, however, did not share the same humor. He remained still, his dark eyes darting between you and Silco, trying to gauge how far this conversation would go. Until finally, he broke the tension.

"What's the point of all this?" He gestured, exasperated. His voice came out deep, unsteady, carrying something between fury and desperation. "Is this just some sick psychological game to you?"

The dark wood of Silco's desk was cold beneath your fingers as you leaned against it, crossing your legs with an almost lazy motion. Your body projected relaxation, but your mind buzzed with the weight of the moment.

Your eyes settled on Marcus with meticulous calm, studying him as if you were seeing him for the first time. He was nothing more than a ghost of a past decision—a remnant of the hesitation that once saved him. You had thought about this encounter since the moment you asked to see him, though the exact reason eluded you. Maybe it had been impulsive. Maybe just a whim. Or maybe, deep down, you simply wanted to confront the future of that past choice.

You had rehearsed this moment countless times. The words, the gestures, the posture. Everything was meant to reflect what you had observed in Silco. The meticulous coldness, the sharp indifference—this was what you wanted to display. He was supposed to feel the shift, to realize that he was no longer facing the same girl who, in a fleeting moment of mercy, had allowed him to keep breathing.

The tables had turned. Now, he was the one standing before you, vulnerable, exposed to the weight of his own insignificance.

But the mask you had planned to wear began to crack before you could even truly put it on. The calculated coldness you had envisioned, the tone of indifference you had so carefully rehearsed—all of it felt artificial now. An illusion that worked perfectly for Silco, but one that did not belong to you. He wore that mask with ease, as if it were a second skin. Coldness fit into his voice, into his intentional pauses, into the way he manipulated and bent those around him.

But you... You were not Silco.

You let out a low, drawn-out sigh, a sound that lingered in the office, carrying the weight of that realization.

"Tell me, Marcus..." Your voice cut through the silence like a sharp whisper, too soft to be a true relief, but enough to make him tense even further. "Did you know what you were hunting that night?"

He blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly, a deep crease forming between his brows. "What do you mean by that?"

Your head tilted slightly to the side, your gaze scrutinizing him with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. He looked like a chess piece left alone on a board without a king. A soldier forgotten after a battle that had already been decided.

"You simply followed orders to eliminate a killer..." Your voice remained low, but there was weight in it, something that made Marcus avert his gaze for a moment, his throat bobbing in a dry swallow. "Or did you know what you were really hunting?"

Marcus hesitated. You saw the confusion flicker across his face like a shadow, his gaze clouding as he tried to piece together fragments of a past that, to him, was just another among the many dirty deeds he had been forced to cover up.

But for you, that moment was something far more significant—a wound still raw, a bitter taste that had never fully left your mouth.

"We were ordered to capture a student who had lost control. Dead or alive. That's it."

His tone was dry, almost defensive, as if he were trying to build a wall between himself and the weight of those words. You tilted your head slightly, studying him with sharp, watchful eyes. He wasn't lying, at least not entirely. But there was something in his eyes—a flicker of something unsaid, a missing piece.

"But you figured out the truth, didn't you?" Your voice was quiet, but each syllable carried an unrelenting weight. "Did you arrest any of them?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

No excuses, no attempt to soften the response—just the uncomfortable quiet of a man who knew that any words would only make things worse.

Disappointing. But not unexpected.

Of course, they hadn't done anything. You were dealing with a government just as rotten as Zaun's chem-barons. The only difference was their clothing—the same sins, the same arrogance, just wrapped in finer fabrics and more sophisticated words. You had learned long ago: the world was not fair. It didn't matter how hard you tried to hold onto the fragments of morality Vander had once tried to teach you. Deep down, justice was never what you wanted.

You didn't want to be better than them.

You just wanted to be above it all—above your own misery, even if only for a single moment.

"Kneel."

You could almost hear Silco's voice in your own as you gave the order to Marcus.

You were echoing Silco now.

Marcus blinked, as if he hadn't understood. The shock on his face, the wide eyes, the way he froze in place. He looked at you as if you had grown a second head, as if it made no sense to hear that order coming from you.

Indignation flared hot and corrosive inside you.

"Don't make me repeat myself."

Marcus turned, like a drowning man searching for a lifeboat, his eyes darting toward Silco. Maybe he was hoping for intervention. Maybe, in some pathetic delusion, he believed Silco would see this as excessive, as a challenge to his authority, and step in.

Silco remained reclined in his chair.

Indifferent. And yet, satisfied.

He didn't move a muscle to stop the scene. He didn't show a trace of sympathy.

Why would he?

To him, this was a spectacle. A silent performance. And you were the star of the show.

You didn't need words to understand. The subtle glint in his heterochromatic eyes, the slight twitch of his lips—it all spoke of approval. He liked what he was seeing. Because, in the end, this was what Silco wanted from you. He wanted you to embrace this part of yourself—the ruthless, unflinching part. To leave hesitation behind.

Marcus, realizing no miracle would come to his rescue, gave in.

Reluctantly, of course. But he gave in.

You watched, taking in every detail—the faint creak of his leather uniform as he moved, the involuntary clench of his fists, the grit of his teeth as if swallowing down a growl of hatred.

He fell to his knees before you.

The sight was almost poetic.

The pathetic carcass of a symbol of justice, bent to your command—a ruined statue of an ideal that was never real to begin with. You tasted the subtle satisfaction trickling down your throat like aged wine. You had begun to enjoy looking down on people.

"Here's what's going to happen." your voice was low but carried an unquestionable firmness. "You're going to find out who was responsible for that damned place and where he is now."

The silence that followed was heavy. You watched as Marcus clenched his jaw, his fists tightening at his sides. Rage radiated off of him in waves, an anger he could barely contain. He hated taking orders, especially from you. But that didn't matter.

You tilted your head slightly, assessing the tension in his muscles, the flush in his skin as he swallowed hard. Then, with the meticulous coldness of someone who had learned to cut down to the soul with words, you added:

"And don't try to play the hero." you continued, leaning in slightly. Your tone remained low, controlled, but each word carried an undeniable weight. "Or I'll kill your daughter."

Silence.

Marcus froze, his eyes widening slightly before he managed to contain his reaction. You could almost hear his breath falter, the sudden shock written across his face. Maybe he had expected a threat against his own life. But you knew the truth—a man can endure anything, except losing what he holds most dear.

If, on that night, the existence of his daughter was what made you hesitate and let him live... now, you would use that same weakness to push him wherever you wanted.

For a few seconds, Marcus just stared at you. His gaze wavered between hatred and resignation, the muscles in his face pulled impossibly tight. Then, as if he had been crushed by an unbearable weight, he closed his eyes for a moment and nodded—subtle, but definitive. He had accepted the order.

"You're dismissed."

You didn't bother to look at him as he stood. The heavy footsteps retreating, the door clicking shut behind him... all of it passed over you like distant noise, muffled and unimportant. Your eyes remained fixed on some random point in the office, your mind suddenly empty. The weight of the moment crashed down onto your shoulders like a leaden cloak, crushing the impeccable composure you had maintained so carefully.

Your shoulders slackened, the tension draining from your body. A breath escaped your lips before you even realized you had been holding it. That was it. You had won.

So why did it feel like you had lost something? Or rather, some part of yourself.

You knew Silco was watching you. The weight of his gaze burned against your back, a presence so palpable it was suffocating. He said nothing. Not yet. At the very least, he had the decency to grant you a second of silence, a brief moment to deal with the emotions churning inside you on your own.

The air around you seemed to contract when you felt something unexpected—Silco's touch.

You hadn't even noticed him move, hadn't registered him leaving his seat to approach you. But there he was, his warm palm pressing against the curve of your spine. His fingers, long and firm, rested against you with a calculated weight—not to restrain, but to anchor. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles against the fabric of your dress, a meticulously measured gesture, almost indulgent.

It was a silent offering. A rare concession of comfort.

Not the common kind of comfort, the kind given out of pity or empathy. No. Silco was not the type to offer empty reassurances. This was something else. A recognition. A reminder that he was there, that he saw you.

And even as he soothed you, you knew. You knew he would have that subtle curve on his lips, the slight tension of a smile forming. When you finally gathered the courage to turn your face toward him, what you found was exactly what you suspected—a proud smile.

"Subtle threats have their advantages." Silco murmured, his voice low, almost contemplative, as if savoring each word before speaking it. "But there is a certain... appeal to direct ones."

His fingers pressed slightly against your back, just enough for you to feel the strength behind his touch. His heterochromatic gaze studied you with surgical precision, analyzing every detail, every fragment of hesitation or conviction he could find.

"I must admit." he tilted his head slightly, his eyes glinting with genuine interest. "I didn't expect you to make a threat quite so... bold."

The pride in his voice was unmistakable. He appreciated it. The evolution. The coldness you were learning to wield. The weight of power being tested in your hands. And perhaps, deep down, part of you appreciated it too—but the hollow feeling made it hard to savor any kind of victory.

"You must understand how others see you, why they see you that way. And then you twist that perception to suit your needs."

The words slipped from your lips with calculated precision, an echo of something he had once taught you.

Silco remained silent, his gaze fixed on you, his brow furrowing slightly in contemplation. He seemed to be trying to recall the context, the exact lesson he had given you, and how it now returned to him, reformed—reshaped by your own interpretation.

You saw the realization dawn on him slowly, like ink dissolving into water, spreading gradually until it colored everything.

"Marcus believes I'm a monster." you continued, keeping your voice firm, almost indifferent. "Then let him believe I'd be capable of such an atrocity. It'll make him think twice before doing anything stupid."

For a moment, Silco didn't respond. His gaze—always so sharp and controlled—widened ever so slightly.

It was a tiny detail, something anyone else might have missed. But not you. You knew him too well. Surprise was a rare thing for him—a man who had mastered the art of masking his emotions, of controlling every expression, every subtle inflection of his voice. But there it was, plain in his eyes, before he regained control almost instantly.

Then, Silco stepped around you, positioning himself in front of you. His hand lifted slowly, long, firm fingers closing gently around your chin. His thumb traced a quiet path along your skin before tilting your face up, forcing your eyes to meet his.

The expression on Silco's lips was unreadable—a mixture of pride and something else... something deeper, heavier. Something that gleamed in the depths of his gaze like a spark waiting for the right moment to ignite into flame.

"So, you were paying attention after all."

There was a true note of astonishment in Silco's voice, a hint of veiled admiration, almost indulgent. His thumb slid over your lower lip, a touch that was almost tender, almost loving—if not for the sharp possessiveness lingering in the way he held you.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised." Silco continued, his voice a thoughtful murmur. "Considering where you came from. And speaking of that... I believe we have a few things to discuss, don't we?"

His eyes flickered away for a moment, and you followed them without needing an explanation.

The documents.

Scattered across the table, waiting for you, demanding your attention.

You tasted the bitterness of displeasure before you even realized the small sound of frustration that had slipped from your throat.

With a resigned sigh, you let your head fall against Silco's chest. The scent of tobacco and gunpowder mingled with the subtle perfume of his clothes, forming an aroma that, somehow, was comforting. Your arms curled around his waist in a possessive, almost childish gesture.

"Or..." you murmured against him, your voice deliberately slow, "we could do something more... satisfying."

A thick silence settled between you.

Then, Silco let out a low, drawn-out chuckle—one that dripped with intent.

"Something more satisfying, you say?" His voice dropped to a silky murmur, almost a predatory purr. Every word was laced with promise, with a dark, carnal undertone that sent a shiver down your spine. "Tell me, dove, exactly what do you have in mind?"

You didn't answer. At least, not with words.

Instead, you pushed yourself off the table in one fluid motion, your hands firm on Silco's shoulders, guiding him back into his chair with clear intent.

He didn't resist.

If anything, Silco allowed himself to be moved, amusement flickering in his eyes as he studied your every move, every unspoken decision.

Of course, he knew you were doing this on purpose.

The thought of facing those documents made you sick. You didn't want to think, didn't want to analyze.

You wanted to escape.

You wanted to get lost.

And Silco was the perfect way out.

When you pushed Silco back into the chair, you climbed onto his lap without hesitation, feeling his breath shift almost imperceptibly under your touch.

Your hands found their way to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in those dark strands as you tilted his face toward yours, drawing closer, your breath mingling with his.

Silco said nothing.

He didn't need to.

His smile said everything.

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Silco knew exactly what she was doing. More than that—he knew what she was planning to do.

She liked to think of herself as unpredictable, a force driven by impulses she barely understood herself. But Silco saw through the illusion. There were patterns, small constants in her actions that she failed to notice but that he had long since memorized. A familiar rhythm to her defiance, an underlying structure to the chaos she believed she wielded so freely.

And yet, he allowed it.

There was a fine balance between encouragement and indulgence, and Silco walked that line with meticulous precision. He would not stop her—not yet. There was value in watching her act, in letting her take control of her own schemes. But Silco also knew exactly when to step in and when that moment arrived, he would do so without hesitation. Until then, he would indulge himself in this fleeting pleasure.

Silco's hand found its way to her hips as she climbed onto his lap, his fingers sinking into the soft, yielding flesh of her rear. He could feel the heat of her core radiating against him, could sense the way her body trembled slightly as she settled herself against him. It was a sensation that sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust straight to his groin.

But even as Silco reveled in the feeling of her body against his own, he couldn't ignore the way she tilted his face towards hers, her fingers tangling in his hair, her breath mingling with his own. It was an intimacy that spoke of a deeper connection, a bond that transcended the physical. Silco's heart raced in his chest, a strange warmth blossoming behind his ribcage as he gazed into her eyes, seeing the unspoken desire that lurked there.

His other hand came up to wrap around the delicate chain of her necklace, his fingers curling around the cool gold metal, the pendant digging into his palm. Silco used the leverage to pull her closer, to crush her body against his own, until there was no space left between them, no room for anything but the electric charge that seemed to crackle in the air.

Silco capture her lips with his own, his mouth moving over hers in a languid, sensual dance. He took his time, savoring the taste of her, the feel of her soft, pliant lips beneath his own. Silco's hand slid up the curve of her spine, his fingers splaying across the small of her back, pressing her closer, molding her body to the hard, unyielding planes of his own.

He could taste the desperation in her kiss, the way she clung to him, the way her nails dug into his scalp. It was a hunger that mirrored his own, a need that demanded to be sated. Silco met it with a hunger of his own, his tongue delving into the warm, welcoming cavern of her mouth, stroking along the velvet softness of her own, teasing, tasting, taking.

Silco's hand slid down to grip the back of her thigh, his fingers sinking into the firm, toned muscle as he hitched her leg up higher, opening her to him, inviting her to grind down against the rigid length of his arousal. Silco's breath hitched in his throat as he felt her start to grind against him, her hips undulating in a steady, hypnotic rhythm.

The friction of her core rubbing against his aching arousal was exquisite torture, a delicious tease that sent jolts of pleasure shooting up his spine with each slow, deliberate rotation. He could feel the heat building between them, the air growing thick and heavy with the weight of their shared desire.

Silco's hands remained steady on her hips, his grip tightening slightly as he guided her movements, his own hips rocking up to meet hers in a silent, primal rhythm. He didn't encourage her to continue, didn't offer any words of praise or encouragement... but he didn't stop her either. Instead, he simply left her free to do whatever she wanted.

When she broke the kiss, her lips parting from his own, Silco felt a pang of disappointment, a sudden ache for the loss of her soft, pliant mouth against his own. But that ache was quickly replaced by a surge of anticipation as he felt her forehead rest against his, her breath mingling with his own, hot and heavy and laden with need. He watched, his gaze heavy-lidded and dark, as her deft fingers went to the knot of his tie.

Her deftly unknot his tie, the silk fabric slipping free of his collar with a soft whisper. He couldn't help but tense slightly as her hands moved to the buttons of his shirt, her fingers working at the fastenings with a determined efficiency. It was a sensation that felt a thrill of anticipation and a hint of trepidation through his body, his heart racing in his chest as he wondered just what she had in store for him. But any fear he harbored were promptly banished as he felt her lips begin to trail along the column of his throat, her kisses and light bites sending a different kind of shivering down his spine.

Silco's head fell back against the chair, his eyes fluttering closed as he lost himself in the feeling of her touch. Lost in the haze of sensation, Silco barely registered the deft fingers working at his belt buckle, too consumed by the feeling of her lips and teeth teasing the sensitive skin of his throat. It wasn't until he felt her fingers deftly unbuttoning his trousers that he was jolted back to the present, his eyes flying open to stare down at her with a mix of surprise and dark, hungry desire.

He watched, his chest heaving and his skin flushed, as she wrapped her fingers around his bare flesh, her thumb swiping across the leaking slit, smearing the bead of moisture that had gathered there. Silco's hips jerked, a strangled groan punching from his lungs as he felt the first touch of her skin on his, the first brush of her fingers along his throbbing, burning flesh. It only lasted a few minutes until she prepared to level up.

Silco's hands shot up to grip her hips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of her rear as she sank down onto his lap, taking him to the hilt. He could feel the scorching, velvet heat of her enveloping him, the way her walls clenched and fluttered around his throbbing length, as if trying to draw him even deeper. It was a sensation that stole his breath and set his nerves alight, his cock pulsing and twitching inside her, growing even harder and warmer as her body welcomed him home.

But even as Silco reveled in the exquisite feeling of her body sheathing his own, he knew that he had to intervene before she started to move, before she began to ride him with that fierce, unrelenting passion that he had come to crave. It had been enough of her trying to get him to divert his attention from the documents to sex.

"That's enough."

"What?!" she breathed in frustration, more confused than angry.

"I know you think you need this, need to lose yourself in the oblivion of pleasure and forget about everything else but you can't keep running away from your past." Silco murmured, his thumbs rubbing slow, soothing circles into the soft flesh of her hips. "I would offer you that oblivion in a heartbeat, dove, but here are important things that need to be discussed."

"And you want to discuss this now?" her tone was disbelieving "In this position?"

He chuckled softly, his chest rumbling beneath her palms as he leaned in to brush his lips against the shell of her ear, his voice a low, teasing murmur.

"Well, I find our current position quite pleasurable."

She looked at Silco as if he had said the most unexpected thing in the world.

"Why do I get the feeling you've probably imagined us in this position before?" She gave a slight laugh, at least she didn't seem so annoyed now. "You, inside me, while you work... I didn't know that was one of your fantasies."

He threw his head back and laughed, a rich, deep sound that seemed to rumble through his chest and into her own, before he fixed her with a heated, smoldering gaze.

"Guilty as charged, dove. The thought of burying myself inside your body while poring over the tedious details of my work has crossed my mind more than once. I must admit, it's a fantasy that I find... rather tempting."

Silco's hands slid up the curve of her spine, his fingers splaying across her shoulder blades as he held her close, his hips rocking almost imperceptibly against her own.

"But that doesn't matter... Now, why don't you tell me how you managed to fake your own death?"

Silco felt the precise moment she gave up trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. It was subtle at first—the faint drop of her shoulders, the quiet exhale of resignation. But then, she leaned into him, her weight pressing against his chest in a way that made his breath hitch.

In the same way he had imagined having her like this, in that position, there was an undeniable part of him eager to continue what they had started. Yet, Silco forced himself to push aside the way his body responded, of how he wanted to bury himself even deeper in her and focused on the matter at hand. The conversation—though, if he were being honest, interrogation felt like a far more fitting word for what was unfolding between them.

Then, with a carelessness that sent a cold shiver of intrigue through him, she spoke.

"It's not hard to find someone with similar features to mine here in the lanes. Disfigure the parts that could be used for identification, and just like that, you have a replacement."

She said it so naturally. So effortlessly. Silco observed her, watching the way the words slipped from her lips as if they were nothing more than a simple fact of life. There was no hesitation, no weight of morality to hold them back. And perhaps she hadn't even realized it.

How chillingly practical it sounded.

"So..." Silco murmured, tilting his head slightly, his mismatched gaze sharpening. "You killed someone for this."

"Of course not!"

She jolted upright in his lap, her movements sharp and sudden—enough to make both of them suck in a breath at the same time, the unexpected friction between them sending a frustrating shiver through their bodies.

"Fuck..." she exhaled in a hushed, almost irritated murmur before shaking her head, her hands bracing against his chest. "She was already dead when I found her. Just another nameless body left for the rats in the gutter. I gave her an identity. I gave her a proper burial."

Silco narrowed his eyes, his expression unreadable but laced with skepticism. He studied her carefully, the sharp glint of his heterochromatic gaze dissecting every flicker of emotion on her face. She looked genuinely offended—indignant, even—that he would assume she had killed for this. It wasn't just a defensive reaction. No, there was something deeper in her outrage, something almost wounded.

For a moment, he entertained the idea that perhaps she really had been lucky enough to stumble upon someone with a similar build. The Lanes were unforgiving. It wouldn't be the first time a corpse had been repurposed for someone else's survival.

Still, that didn't make it any less impressive.

"Should I presume you had help pulling off such a feat?"

"You presumed correctly." she admitted, her voice quieter now. "But he's dead too."

The weight of those words settled between them, thick and unspoken. And yet, rather than pulling away, she let herself lean into Silco again, pressing against his chest as if seeking something—whether it was comfort, warmth, or just the grounding presence of another person, maybe even she wasn't sure.

"He was my... friend, a very dear friend." she continued, the word feeling foreign on her tongue, as if it no longer belonged to her. "He helped me while the enforcers were hunting me down in Zaun. Risked his own damn skin to keep me hidden."

Silco hummed, the sound deep and thoughtful. His fingers traced idle circles along the bare skin of her thighs, slow and deliberate, as if the motion somehow helped him process the information. There was something meditative about it, a contrast to the sharp calculations undoubtedly running through his mind.

"A gesture like that isn't common in Zaun."

She let out a slow breath, her gaze distant.

"He was a good man." she said finally, her voice carrying an odd mixture of certainty and regret. "Made bad choices... but he was a good man."

Silco let that information linger in the air for a moment, rolling it over in his mind like smoke curling from the end of a freshly lit cigar. Whoever this man was, he had to be someone with power—or, at the very least, the right connections in Zaun. Someone capable of keeping her hidden from the Enforcers all this time.

Someone like Vander, perhaps.

The thought was almost laughable. Almost.

After all, the Vander he knew—the man he had once fought beside—would have done anything to protect those he deemed important. But after he had slipped into his pacifist phase, after he had traded ambition for quiet survival, it was difficult to imagine him desecrating a corpse just to keep someone safe.

And yet... Silco had learned never to deal in absolutes.

"That day with Cayde you implied you spent years at the Institute. And the records mention you as a young woman when you escaped." His eyes sharpened, his mind already connecting the pieces before she could even confirm them. "You were taken there as a child, weren't you?"

She didn't answer aloud. She didn't have to. The small, almost imperceptible nod was enough. Silco hummed, his expression unreadable. His gaze flickered over her face, as if searching for something—anger, grief, regret. He found none.

"Your father gave you to them, didn't he?"

Another nod.

"And that's why you killed him."

There was no hesitation or silence this time.

"I have no regrets about it."

Silco leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. There was something striking about how effortlessly she said it, how firmly she held onto that conviction. No flinching, no uncertainty. It was a truth she had long since accepted, a wound that had scarred over with time.

"And why take so many years experimenting on a child?" he mused. "What exactly were they trying to achieve?"

This time, she didn't answer.

Silence wrapped around them like a tightening noose, thick and suffocating. Her eyes pressed shut, her expression twisted into something tight, restrained. Her fists clenched at the fabric of Silco's vest, gripping so hard her knuckles turned white. He could feel it—the way her entire body tensed against him, a visceral, instinctive reaction to whatever thoughts had just sunk their claws into her mind.

Revulsion.

It rippled off her in waves, a sickened response to something only she could see. And beneath it, tangled in the knots of her rage, was fear. Not the fear of pain, nor of death. No, this was something deeper, something that had its roots buried inside her long before this moment. She was holding onto him. Clutching at him like an anchor, as if the mere act of remembering could drag her back to wherever she had come from. As if it terrified her to even brush against the edges of that place in her mind.

Then, barely above a whisper, she spoke.

"A new Piltover... cast out the old and hand the city to the new. The true City of Progress exists beyond the constraints of morality."

Her voice was distant, hollow. A recitation rather than a statement. The words sounded practiced, ingrained—like something drilled into her over and over until they became second nature. A doctrine. A slogan.

Brainwashing.

Silco's gaze sharpened. He had seen it before—the way ideals were forced into people, molded into their very bones until they believed it was their own conviction speaking. Only, with her, something had gone wrong. Somewhere along the way, the conditioning fractured. The machine that had tried to forge her into something obedient had lost control of its own creation.

His fingers flexed against her back, grounding, deliberate.

"What were you made for?"

Silco was about to press further when he felt her shift again in his lap. This time, she didn't pull away—she curled into him instead, burying her face into the crook of his neck. The unexpected intimacy of it made him still for a fraction of a second, before he noticed something else.

"Ensuring that future... at any cost." She was trembling. Not from fear. Not from sadness... No, she was shaking with rage. "They made me a monster..." she whispered, her voice tight, raw with something dark and unrelenting.

Silco exhaled through his nose, something resembling amusement curling at the edges of his lips before he reached for her, his grip firm but not forceful. Slowly, he pulled her back just enough so that their eyes met—so that she had no choice but to see herself reflected in his gaze.

"So embrace it." he murmured, his voice steady, unwavering. "Become the monster they created."

His fingers trailed along her face, brushing aside the stray strands of hair that had fallen over her features. There was something meticulous in the way he did it, as if sculpting a masterpiece, revealing something he had long suspected was beneath the surface.

"True freedom lies in becoming the thing you have always feared, dove."

His hand drifted lower, fingers idly toying with the pendant resting against her collarbone. The gemstone caught the dim light of the room, flickering in shades of violet that stood in sharp contrast against the sickly green glow spilling in from the office window.

"Do you remember what I told you the day we first met?"

She let out a soft chuckle, breathy and slightly strained.

"You said a lot of things, Silco."

"Certainly." Silco agreed, tilting his head slightly, his lips curling into something dangerously close to a smirk. "But I'm referring to when I told you that you were a survivor."

His voice dipped lower, deliberate, edged with something that made her stomach tighten. His fingers ghosted over the pendant once more, a slow and methodical movement as he let the weight of his next words settle between them.

"And that survivors don't settle for scraps when they could have the entire feast."

He could feel the slight shift in her breathing—an almost imperceptible reaction, but one he didn't miss. Silco adjusted his position in the chair then, pushing himself upright, moving away from the lazy recline he had been in. The motion was smooth, fluid—except for one unintended consequence.

The slight roll of his hips against hers. It was barely more than a shift, yet it sent a ripple through both of them, a sharp reminder of the position they had momentarily forgotten. A sharp inhale left her lips. His own breath hitched, subtle but unmistakable.

"I stand by my words, and you should do the same, dove." His voice was smooth, yet edged with something sharper. There was no hesitation in the way he spoke, no room for doubt. "After everything, it is your right to seek revenge. And you shouldn't deny yourself that indulgence."

The way he said it, indulgence, made it sound almost... decadent. A luxury rather than a sin.

"You keep denying this part of yourself as if it were some kind of transgression." he continued, his tone lowering into something close to a growl. "As if embracing it would somehow damn you."

The words lingered in the space between them, but before she could respond—before she could even process the weight of them—Silco moved.

Fast.

His hands gripped her thighs without warning, fingers digging into flesh as he lifted her effortlessly. There was no hesitation in his movements, no uncertainty—just raw intention. The world tilted for a brief second as he rose from his chair, carrying her with him. And then, the cold press of wood against her back. He laid her down onto the desk, atop those documents she loathed so much. The weight of them beneath her, the weight of this—it was a cruel irony.

These papers, these meaningless scraps of ink... they were the embodiment of a reality she had spent so long trying to outrun. A future dictated by the past. A game she never wanted to play, yet found herself ensnared in regardless. And now, Silco had laid her atop them, as if forcing her to acknowledge it. As if daring her to face it.

"This..." he murmured, voice thick with something unreadable. "This is you."

A hand trailed up, tracing the line of her jaw with infuriating precision, before tilting her chin up just enough to meet his gaze fully.

"You are perfect."

Silco's hand slid up to cup her cheek, his calloused fingers brushing against the soft, delicate skin with a gentleness that belied the dark, hungry look in his eyes. He could see the way she gazed up at him, her eyes wide and searching, as if trying to discover something that Silco was hiding. She leaned into the touch so he leaned down to capture her lips with his own.

He kissed her deeply, fiercely, his tongue delving into her welcoming mouth as if he wanted to transfer his certainties to her through that kiss. He could taste the sweet, intoxicating essence of her, the flavor of her desire and her need, and it only served to stoke the flames of his own hunger. Silco's other hand slid down to her hip, his fingers sinking into the soft, yielding flesh as he ground his hips against hers, slowly, almost hesitantly. Silco could feel the way her body yielded to him, the way her walls clenched and fluttered around his shaft, as if trying to draw him even deeper inside her, even though the seductive mood before that interrogation had long since ended.

He knew deep down that he should continue questioning, but he already had answers to his main questions, so he would allow himself to use that time to take away her uncertainties and hesitation.

Silco's eyes fluttered open, his brows furrowing slightly as he felt the gentle tug at his vest, but precisely her fingers working at the fastenings of his vest. He pulled back slightly, just enough to break the kiss and meet her gaze with a heated, intense stare of his own. He could see the way her eyes glittered with a newfound hunger, the way her cheeks were flushed and her lips were swollen and slick with his own saliva

Without a word, he shrugged out of his vest, the garment falling to the floor beside the desk with a soft, muffled thud. Soon after, her fingers began the second task of opening the buttons on his shirt, as the last button slipped free, Silco leaned back to kiss her again, his hips began to move with increasing urgency, the rhythm of his thrusts growing faster, harder, more insistent with each passing second.

Silco's hand slid down the length of her thigh, his fingers gripping the soft flesh of her knee as he effortlessly lifted her leg, hooking it over his shoulder. The new position allowed him to drive even deeper into her, the head of his cock kissing the entrance to her womb with each powerful thrust. Silco's other hand gripped her hip, his fingers sinking into the supple curve as he held her in place, pinning her down against the desk as he took his pleasure from her willing body.

That moment was a kind of a reward. A silent gratification for finally lowering her guard, for peeling back yet another layer of that carefully constructed armor she had spent so long reinforcing.

She had changed.

Her morality, once a solid, unshakable thing, now teetered dangerously on the edge of something else—something far more ruthless. She had already stepped into the abyss, already dirtied her hands. It was only a matter of time before she stopped flinching at the stains.

And yet... something still held her back.

A hesitation. A resistance.

Not much. Barely there. But it existed and Silco was determined to snap it.

Her back arched off the desk, her breasts thrusting up towards the ceiling as a sharp gasp tore from her throat. Silco's heart raced as he felt her body tense and quiver beneath him, the way she clung to him, the desperate, needy sounds spilling from her lips... it was almost too much to bear.

Silco felt her hands suddenly cup his face, her fingers threading through his hair, her thumbs brushing against his cheeks. He could feel the intensity of her gaze boring into him, the way her eyes seemed to see straight into his very soul.

Her lips parted slightly, as if she were trying to form a word, a phrase. But no sound came, only the harsh, ragged sound of their mingled breaths filling the charged air between them. For a long moment, they remained like that, locked in a silent battle of wills, each trying to discern the true nature of the other's thoughts. The world seemed to fall away, the creaking of the desk, the distant sounds of the city fading into nothingness as they stared at each other, their faces mere inches apart.

Suddenly, it all becomes simply unbearable. Silco's hips give a last, powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside her quivering depths as his release crashes over him like a tidal wave. At the same time, her back arches sharply off the desk, her nails digging into Silco's cheeks as her own climax overwhelms her senses.

For a moment, they remain locked in that perfect, agonizing instant, time seeming to stand still as they ride out the aftershocks of their intense coupling. Silco's breathing is ragged and labored as he slowly lowers her trembling leg from his shoulder, gently easing it back down to rest beside her other one on the desk.

He collapses forward, catching himself on his elbows to avoid crushing her, as he struggles to regain his breath and composure. The desk beneath them creaks and groans in protest at the sudden shift of weight, the documents scattered across its surface fluttering to the floor like fallen leaves. Silco pays them no heed.

His attention is on her.

His dove... his baroness.

His.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

[...]

The river's waves lapped against your body in a slow, rhythmic motion, pushing and pulling you as if the water itself was breathing. The cold had long since seeped through your clothes, turning the fabric heavy against your skin, and yet, you remained there, arms wrapped tightly around yourself in a vain attempt to preserve what little warmth was left.

You had no idea why Silco had brought you here. Not really. But it mattered to him. He stood a few steps ahead, half-submerged in the same water that soaked through your limbs, but he showed no sign of discomfort. If the cold reached him, he hid it well, as he always did. His expression was unreadable, his gaze distant, lost somewhere in the inky blackness of the river.

This place... it was familiar to both of you.

A graveyard.

Or, more precisely, your almost-graves.

Different circumstances. Different times. But the same water had nearly claimed you both.

"Ever wonder what it's like to drown? Story of opposites. There's peace in water. Like it's holding you, whispering in low tones to let it in. And every problem in the world will fade away."

His voice was low, thoughtful, carrying the weight of someone who had lived the experience he described. His eyes flickered over the dark water, following its movement as if it whispered secrets only he could hear.

"But then, there's this thing... in your head, and it's raging. Lighting every nerve with madness. To fight. To survive. And all the while, this question lingers before you: 'Have you had enough?' It's funny." he mused, tilting his head just slightly. "You could pass a lifetime without ever facing a choice like that. But it changes you forever."

You, more than anyone, could understand the weight of those words. And yet... the last part didn't quite resonate with your own experience. Not entirely. Because when you had tried to drown, there had been no fight. No raging madness lighting every nerve, no desperate struggle to claw your way back to the surface. You had wanted to die. Silco hadn't.

It was ironic, really. That the very place where Vander had once tried to kill Silco was the same place where that same Vander had pulled you out, gasping, shivering, alive.

Stories of opposites, indeed.

"I nearly drowned here..." Silco's voice pulled you from your thoughts. His words were slow, deliberate, as if he were savoring them. "By the hands of someone I considered a brother... someone you seem to admire so much. And I thank him for it."

Your brows furrowed, confusion creeping in as you tried to make sense of where this was going.

"That day." Silco continued, voice dipping into something deeper, something almost reverent. "I let a weak man die."

Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward—into the water. The movement was so sudden, so unexpected, that your body reacted before your mind could catch up. You lurched toward him, instinct screaming at you to reach for him, to pull him back from whatever had just taken hold of him. But before you could do anything, before panic could fully set in, Silco emerged just as quickly as he had disappeared beneath the surface.

Drenched.

Water streamed down his face, carving rivulets through his slicked-back hair, leaving it disheveled and wild. Droplets clung to his skin, his clothes now dark and heavy with the weight of the river. And yet, he did not falter. His voice did not waver.

"And another was reborn."

Silco stood there, still, unwavering, his back to you.

"Revenge... this need that consumes you. A blade sharpened by your own pain, poised to cut down those who wronged you" Silco's voice was calm, measured, yet there was an undeniable weight behind it. Like he wasn't just speaking to you—he was speaking through you. To something deeper. Something raw. "But revenge... it changes you. It can blind you, make you forget why you started. Or it can shape you. Make you something stronger. Something... inevitable."

You felt his gaze before you saw it. That piercing, knowing look of his. But when you finally dared to meet his eyes, your breath caught in your throat. He wasn't looking at you with amusement, or calculation, or even quiet approval. It was that look. That rare, quiet softness that made something in your chest tighten unbearably. The kind of look that made you want to crumble, to let go of the weight pressing against your ribs and just— breathe.

He moved toward you, slow and deliberate, as if afraid that one wrong step would send you running.

"You need to let that part of you die." he murmured, and his voice was almost... gentle. "The part that hesitates. The part that still believes there is a path without blood. Because as long as it exists... fear will still have control over you."

Silco's hands found yours, his grip firm yet careful, as if grounding you in place. His fingers intertwined with yours, calloused but warm, anchoring you to the moment—anchoring you to him. Then, in a voice that left no room for doubt, he spoke:

"You will never be a monster to me, dove."

The certainty in his words was absolute, unshaken—not a mere reassurance, but a truth carved into the very foundation of his belief. It sent a shiver down your spine, unraveling something deep inside you, something you had tried to keep buried.

And then, he kissed you.

It wasn't just a kiss—it was ruin, a promise, a sin wrapped in something dangerously tender. His lips pressed against yours with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs, the weight of it both salvation and damnation entwined in a single touch. A glimpse of heaven laced with the fire of hell, colliding in that fleeting moment.

You had told yourself you wouldn't go down this path again. That you wouldn't let yourself sink any deeper into the abyss he so effortlessly lured you back into. You had tried to wash the blood from your hands. And yet, it was still there.

Lurking beneath your fingernails, staining the creases of your palms—a permanent mark, a reminder of what you had done, of what you were. But Silco's hands still held yours, unwavering. As if it didn't matter. As if the weight of your sins meant nothing to him. Perhaps, to him, it truly didn't.

Two souls tied, intertwined by pride and guilt drinking the poison of the same vine. Two sinners who could not atone for from a lone prayer.

You let him pull you under.

The water swallowed you whole, wrapping around your body with a painful familiarity, a cruel lover whispering sweet nothings in the form of burning salt and poison. The waves cradled your weightless form, indifferent to your struggle, the current tugging at you like an invitation to let go.

And you did.

You let yourself sink, deeper and deeper, surrendering to the quiet suffocation, trusting that someone would pull you back to the surface. So when Silco pulled you back into his arms, when his hands found you and held you, you let another part of yourself drown. You let it go. You let it die. Left over from you, only what he had chosen to bring back.

And in the end, those waters became your coffin.

Part 16

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I love the baptism scene so there was no way I couldn't include it in this story. Anyway, I was accepted to do an internship at a company so I have this job in addition to college. So let's hope I can keep up the regular updates. Well, I already have an idea of ​​the next chapter and if you guys comment enough I'll give a little spoiler in a post during the week.

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