Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“More than anything, I feared being alone. I thought about it so often that, without meaning to, I brought it into my life myself.”

The rocking wasn’t gentle or lulling, like a cradle’s sway. It was sharp, uneven, erratic. Each jolt echoed in her body as a dull ache, like something inside her was tearing loose. Powder woke, but the world hadn’t yet come together. Her thoughts snagged on fragments, and behind her closed eyelids flared only flashes of blue fire — and a scream. A scream that might have been Vi’s voice, or might have been the echo of her own despair. She wasn’t sure she heard anything at all, apart from herself.

The air was thick and damp — laced with rust and coal. Trying to open her eyes sent a spike of pain through her temples. A soft, breathless moan escaped her mouth.

The rocking stopped. Hands that had been carrying her tried to set her down. She felt the soles of her boots touch the ground, but her body refused to obey. Her knees buckled. Powder collapsed.

Someone yanked her back up by the shoulders, shaking her — not gently, not even neutrally, but with a kind of frustrated urgency, almost violence. As if her weakness were offensive. Her mind slipped again into darkness.

A dry, sharp exhale broke the silence — less irritation, more exhaustion. The kind of sigh that belongs to someone who’s used to things falling apart, and no longer hopes they’ll get easier. He looked down at her like at a burden he hadn’t chosen. Said nothing. But there was something heavy in his gaze — something she wouldn’t have seen, but that lived in the flicker of past images unspooling through his mind.

“Leave her. Let her die. This isn’t your problem. Don’t make your life worse” — the voice in his head grew louder. He blinked his good eye, shook his head, banishing the phantom speaker — and the ghosts that came with him.

He didn’t walk away. Instead, he bent down and picked her up again. No tenderness. Just certainty — the kind that left her only one option: to remain in his arms. His fingers closed around her body with firm, near-possessive force, as if to say: You’re here because I choose to keep you.

He said nothing. But he walked forward, carrying her toward where the noise ended, toward a place where it was still possible to hide from the world.

They were nearly at the shelter when a flicker crossed the path ahead — a shadow in the flickering yellow light. A woman stepped out from a side tunnel. Broad-shouldered, with cropped hair. She stopped directly in front of them and didn’t move.

“You’ve seen what’s happening?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t slow. He only tightened his hold on the girl in his arms.

“Silco. No one knew.” Her voice was restrained, but fear and anger pressed through. “Zaun’s in panic. Was this your doing?”

“Not mine,” he said. “But now it’s my responsibility.”

She glanced at the child in his arms. There was no comprehension in her gaze — only confusion and a rising tide of unease.

“Do you even understand what’s coming?” she asked, quieter. “The Enforcers won’t ignore this. It’s enough to start a war.”

He didn’t respond.

Somewhere behind them, a light flickered. In the flash, his face surfaced — sharp, motionless. No fear. No fury. Only calculation. Something very quiet. And very dangerous.

“They won’t strike,” he said finally. “They’ll think. Count. Fear. They’ll look for a way not to anger us further. And while they do… we build what they failed to destroy.”

“Build what?” she scoffed, stepping closer. “What do we have left?”

He looked at her. Then — at the girl.

Her hands were stained with soot. But between her fingers, faint sparks still glowed — bright blue and trembling. Barely alive. But alive.

“This,” he said quietly. “She brought the Hex crystal. And that’s more than we’ve had in years.”

Cold came first. It crept into her mind before thoughts or memories, before pain. Not a chill, not a breeze — but something glacial and smothering, the kind of cold that slips beneath the skin. Her awareness returned slowly and unwillingly, as if it didn’t even try to make sense of waking. She couldn’t tell where she was. No walls, no light, no sounds reminded her of the room she used to share with Vi. Only this heavy, suffocating cold, and the growing, dizzying sense of weakness that kept building inside her.

“…Cold…” she whispered more than said.

Wood creaked. The man stepped away from the desk and came closer. He had heard her. His gaze slid over her body, over pale skin. Without a sound, he approached and touched her forehead with the tips of his fingers.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “Perfect. Just what I fucking needed.”

Turning sharply, he strode toward the door and threw over his shoulder to the woman sitting in the next room:

“Keep an eye on her.”

The woman lifted her head from her notes with a surprised look, intending to protest, but the man’s figure had already disappeared behind the door.

Sevika entered the office reluctantly. Her eyes moved slowly across the room and settled on the desk where the girl lay. Still covered in soot and dirt, with a scratched face, she was shivering from cold, desperately trying to hold the warmth inside her.

There was something painfully familiar about this girl. Something from the time when Sevika herself had lived in the filthiest basements of the city — alone, sick, and starving. She had clung to the hope that someone would come, help, save her. Days blurred into nights in endless waiting. And one day, the miracle did come — Silco arrived. Enough time had passed since then, but she still paid him back with loyalty for pulling her out of darkness and helplessness.

The girl whimpered. There was so much helplessness and resignation in that sound, it struck Sevika deeper than she was ready to admit. Something inside her flinched painfully. She looked around, grabbed an old patchwork blanket from the nearby chair — heavy, faded, and smelling of machine oil.

Coming closer, she carefully, almost awkwardly unfolded the blanket, listening to the girl’s breathing. Slowly, she covered her with it, smoothed the edges, adjusted the folds to make it warmer.

She froze, watching the girl, and for a moment felt an unexpected urge to run her hand over her hair — strange, unfamiliar, and immediately brushed aside like something shameful.

Instead, she sat down beside her and kept watching the pale, exhausted face, feeling the weight of old memories rising again inside her like a wave.

“Don’t die, kid,” she said quietly into the silence. “None of us has time for that right now.”

The silence answered her. With agreement.

Or a warning.

Chapter Text

"You see, power, real power doesn't come to those who were born strongest or fastest or smartest. No.  It comes to those who will do anything to achieve it..."

The walls of his office held more than secrets. The air hung thick with the scent of dust, old paper, and harsh chemicals — a smell that clung to the skin. On the shelves nearby: folders, ampoules with faded labels, sealed vials with murky sediment, rusted mechanisms and tools whose purpose had long been forgotten. Everything in this room reeked of time — and of decisions that demanded a price. Some paid far too much.

The girl lay on a long wooden table by the wall, with stacks of papers pushed aside. Once, this table had seen political decisions, signed orders, detailed plans. Now, it held a different purpose — the desperate hope that one small girl would survive the night.

Sevika sat beside her, her face frozen in a mix of irritation and helplessness. She no longer bothered to dampen the cloth, or dig through old medkits, or search for ice in powerless freezers. No more salves forgotten in drawer corners. Everything had been done. And none of it mattered.

Silco had arrived hours earlier, dropping two cloudy vials onto the table — unlabeled, filled with a viscous green-gray liquid that reeked of metal, vinegar, and something else entirely unnatural. Medicine was scarce in the city even before the explosion. Now, anything remotely useful was nearly impossible to find.

“She’s burning from the inside,” Sevika rasped, eyes never leaving the girl. “She’s burning up. And this—” she gestured at the vials, “—this is gutter sludge. This doesn’t heal. This kills.”

He said nothing. No noise in his head, no thoughts — only a cold, foreign clarity. He calculated outcomes. Not feelings. Not doubt. Only result. There was one path forward — and the cost might be monstrous. But then, what wasn’t?

The scientist’s private laboratory was hidden deep underground — buried in corridors unmarked by maps, behind doors without locks. The air here was different: thick, acidic, almost carnivorous. It reeked of something medical, but far from sterile — a blend of formaldehyde, burnt flesh, damp stone, and chemicals that should never be inhaled without consequence.

On the walls — dozens of crooked graphs, hazy photographs, sheets scrawled with indecipherable formulas. Along the shelves — jars of organic matter, vessels filled with liquids in unnatural shades, pulsing shapes floating under glass. Every object spoke not just of science, but of obsession.

Singed kept working. Behind him, a burner hissed, tiny flasks foamed and hissed. He measured, poured, sealed circuits of liquid through glass tubes, locking them into strange systems of ampoules and filters.

Silco stood in silence, watching for several minutes as a thin spiral carried a blue substance downward, shifting in color from turquoise to a deep violet. In another corner, one of the vials flared — the fluid inside expanding and contracting like the lungs of something alive. This was alchemy of pain and calculation, where each working formula came at the cost of dozens of lethal failures.

He didn’t like coming back here — not to the past, not to the part of himself that was weak. There was a time when he came to this lab seeking doses, too often, too humbly, bargaining with pain in the hope of clawing back control. Shimmer gave him power, but took more in return — turned him into a tool. Things changed only when he could offer Singed something more valuable than money: protection, freedom, and total autonomy in his work. There was no trust between them — only necessity.

But today he hadn’t come for himself. And that made everything more dangerous.

He stepped forward. There was no plea in his voice — only command.

“I need something.”

He didn’t say the word “medicine.” It felt naive. Too peaceful for Zaun. No one here was healed. They survived.

Singed didn’t turn. He only drew a thin glass rod along the edge of a flask, watching the color shift.

“I’m surprised to see you here," — he said, almost with amusement. “I didn’t think you’d become sentimental. Though… you’ve known that child since the day she was born, haven’t you?”

Silco flinched — barely. But his eyes stayed sharp, cold, controlled. He wouldn’t let himself step into that place where pain lived.

“It’s not sentiment. It’s necessity. If she dies, the plan dies with her. The structure collapses.”

Singed tilted his head, as if uncertain whether to believe him — or perhaps regretting something else entirely.

“Shimmer won’t work, — he said. — It’s too aggressive for a child’s body. It would tear her apart from the inside. This is… gentler. Theoretically. But unstable. The side effects are unknown. We used it once. The result was a failure."

“Why?”

“The mind. The body adapts, but not always the brain. Reality begins to slip. Voices, visions, loss of focus. It doesn’t always happen right away. Sometimes it’s irreversible. Are you sure you’re willing to give her to that?”

He pulled open a drawer, took out a thin vial filled with a glowing orange liquid — like fire trapped in glass — and handed it to Silco without looking.

Silco took it without a change in expression. He didn’t examine it. Didn’t ask about dosage. He just said, flat and sharp:

“I’m giving her to what hasn’t killed. 

Unlike everything else.

He returned sometime after midnight. His office had turned into a waiting room — silent, unpromising, as if the space itself was holding its breath, waiting for the outcome.

The girl was barely breathing.

Sweat clung to her brow. Her lips were cracked. The body that once moved with clumsy defiance now looked alien — too pale, too thin, as if she were already gone and only the shell remained, stubbornly refusing to follow.

Sevika sat beside her. She said nothing. But her eyes met his in a way that made words unnecessary — not with anger, but with weight. Disappointment, maybe. Resignation.

Silco didn’t speak. He simply nodded — go.

She rose slowly, adjusting the blanket over the girl almost absentmindedly. Her shoulder brushed his as she passed, but she didn’t look back. The door shut behind her with a heavy, final click.

Only then did he allow himself to move closer.

The girl radiated heat. Her eyelids trembled. Lashes clung together from sweat. For a moment, he wasn’t sure she was breathing at all — and caught himself holding his own breath, as if he could share it.

He looked at the vial in his hand. The fire inside burned steadily, as if it knew its time had come.

Just for a moment, Felicia surfaced in his mind — too bright, too soft for Zaun. She was holding the blue-haired infant, whose eyes — wide, confused — shimmered in the light of overhead lamps. Vi, loud and restless, sat nearby on Vander’s knee.

Felicia laughed — that kind of laughter that belongs only to those who don’t live long enough to see the end of their story.

And he… he had tried to trap that moment. With his eyes, with memory, with anything left in him that could hold it still. Her face had meant something. More than just a child. More than just a piece of the past.

He blinked — and the vision was gone.

Only silence remained. And the child, suspended between life and death.

Silco drew the syringe. His movements were smooth, practiced: the soft clink of glass, the turn of the vial, the delicate meeting of needle and glowing orange fluid. His hand didn’t shake — but the tension in his fingers was unmistakable.

He leaned toward her, lifted the blanket, exposing pale, nearly translucent skin. He found a vein in the crook of her elbow, paused for a breath, and pushed the needle in.

The liquid slid beneath her skin, curling through her veins like a poison with a delayed fuse. He froze, staring at her face, at the empty vial, at the fingers still gripping the syringe. The decision was already made.

One minute. Another. And just as the thought began to form — slow and certain — too late.

She screamed.

The sound tore through the room. A raw cry — of pain, of shattered nerves, of a body rejecting the unnatural thing inside it. Her back arched, hands jerked, fingers clutched at empty air as if reaching for something that wasn’t there anymore. Her lips parted in a scream. Her eyes stayed shut, but tears gathered in the corners.

Silco flinched. The empty vial slipped from his hand, hitting the floor with a chime. He stepped forward — barely half a step — as if he meant to hold her, calm her, touch her…

But stopped.

What he had to give her was already in her veins. And there was no taking it back.

The scream ended as abruptly as it had begun — not fading, just vanishing. Silence returned, broken only by her ragged breath. He stood there, unmoving. Watching. Not blinking. As if waiting for something — any sign she was still there.

But something in her had changed. Something faint, but final — as if the spark inside had gone out.

Powder’s mind had gone dark.

Chapter Text

“Jinx was born long before everything fell apart — she grew inside Powder a little more with every rejection.”

Dreams are beautiful. In them, there are no rules. You can see those who are long gone, return to places that no longer exist, and start to believe again that pain is nothing but a forgotten shadow. Dreams are a temporary refuge for a tired mind. A place where anything is still possible — even what could never happen in waking life. They’re deceptive, like a mirage in a dust-choked wasteland, and that’s their magic. In dreams, you can pretend things aren’t so frightening. That everything is still ahead.

Two years ago

Powder stood behind the door, pressing herself against it, listening to the voices. She was scared, but the pain of having messed up and let her sister down — again — was stronger.

“Vi, you were supposed to watch Powder. You’re sisters,” Vander’s voice was calm, but firm. “She’s only seven, she’s still a child.”

“I can’t keep an eye on her every single time!” Vi snapped. “Is it my fault she always gets into trouble because she’s so clumsy? We were supposed to cross the rooftops to the vents on the old warehouse. Everything was planned, everything! I told her to stay down. I begged her not to follow us.”

Her voice trembled, but she pulled herself together quickly.

“But she went after us. Like always. I heard her scream when she was already slipping off the pipe. Mylo rushed to catch her and… fell. Because of her. He fell five meters and broke his arm. Did you hear him screaming in pain? And I had to drag them both!”

Powder crouched in the corner, shrinking in on herself. She was still clutching the strip of bandage she’d tried to tie around Mylo’s arm..

“We’re without him for at least a month,” Vi stepped closer, her voice dropping, growing harder. “Which means no more raids, no money coming in. All because she couldn’t just stay put. Couldn’t just listen.”

“She’s a child. And she’s your little sister,” Vander’s patience was running thin. “You’ll always be responsible for her. Not just for a while, not until the next raid or training session. Always. You can’t just leave her behind.”

“Why me? Why is it always me?” Vi shouted. “It’s not my fault mom and dad died. Not my fault she’s… like this! Why did this become my problem? She’s a jinx” In a burst of anger, Vi hurled her homemade radio — it hit the wall and shattered into pieces.

A year ago

Powder sat on the floor, legs crossed. In front of her lay a heap of metal, springs, colorful wires, and broken parts from lanterns, clocks, and whatever else she could scavenge or barter from the kids on the street. That evening, she was once again working on a new invention, and every so often something flashed between her fingers — a spark, a movement, a brief buzzing of a tiny motor.

On the makeshift shelves of old planks nearby stood her previous inventions. A small air purifier, assembled from fan scraps and a layer of coal, buzzed quietly; a firefly — a tiny lamp powered by a drop of oil — shone steadily and softly, casting a cozy pool of light in the corner where she worked. There was even an automatic door latch, built on the simplest lever, so no one could barge in unexpectedly — especially when she was crying from loneliness.

Powder loved to make things. Surrounded by scattered parts and scraps, breathing new life into what others saw as junk, she felt genuinely happy. But her inventions rarely impressed anyone — Vander was always too busy with the city, and Vi and her friends saw no point in these things.

Across the room, a different kind of life was unfolding: Vi, Mylo, and Claggor sat around an overturned crate serving as a table, laughing about their recent adventures. Vi, voice raspy, was telling them exactly what they needed to do for the next raid, while the boys drew up a plan. They sat in a circle of warmth and approval — their own world. And Powder — tucked away in a corner of silence and soft light, with inventions no one else needed, except for herself.

But this time, it would be different. Powder was determined to create something truly useful for their raids — not a toy, but a real device that could change the outcome of a mission. Something to be proud of, something Vi would actually take with her.

Often, drifting off to sleep, the girl imagined them returning from a raid — tired but happy. She imagined Vi, beaming, dropping their loot on the table and telling everyone:

— “We couldn’t have done it without Powder’s gadget.”

She saw Mylo whistling in admiration, Claggor patting her on the shoulder, and Vi — hugging her.

She spent days tinkering with tiny parts, patiently soldering and reworking what wouldn’t function. And at last, it was done: a small metal beetle with thin legs and a light body. It moved almost silently, creeping like the real thing, and inside it hid a capsule of sleeping gas to incapacitate an enemy.

Powder gazed at her creation in awe. The tiny body glimmered under the lamplight, the delicate legs moved almost silently, lifelike. She had made it nearly perfect. Carefully, she picked it up and walked over to the crate where the others sat.

“Look,” she said softly, laying the beetle before her sister with a cautious smile. “He could be your helper. I calculated everything — he can even crawl up walls. I thought maybe he could help you… you know, if things get dangerous. Isn’t it cool?”

Vi glanced at it and quickly looked away, her attention fixed on the map of the tunnels, determined to memorize it.

“Yeah, Pow, nice. I’ll check it out later.”

“But, Vi…” Powder leaned forward, her voice unsteady. “I worked on it for so long…”

“Go away, Powder, you’re in the way,” Mylo said irritably.

“You go away!” she snapped back, wounded. “Why are you even here? Vander asked you to help at the warehouse!”

Mylo turned sharply, his face angry and impatient. He grabbed the gadget and squeezed it in his hand.

“Wanna see what all your inventions are really worth?”

Powder had no chance to protest. She only flinched, as if she’d been squeezed herself.

A swing, a blow — the tiny beetle’s shell shattered against the wall. Its insides scattered across the table, legs flying in all directions.

Vi shushed Mylo, but didn’t look up from the map.

“That’s enough, Mylo.”

Powder didn’t yell. Didn’t get angry. She just walked to the wall, gathered the pieces, pressed them to her chest, and withdrew to the far corner. There, the firefly’s glow was softer than her sister’s voice. There, no one could interrupt her being alone. And only there, clutching the broken shell in her hands, did she allow herself to cry.

Two days ago

…She stood in the ruins of the bridge. Fire was still raging, threatening to spread to the nearby buildings.

Powder was kneeling, clutching the remains of her invention — the one that had worked. The one that had doomed everyone. Her lips trembled, her fingers were scraped and raw, her eyes wide with fear and despair.

Blood slid down her cheek, mixing with soot and tears. Her hair was plastered to her forehead. Her chest felt tight, she couldn’t take a deep breath and there was a ringing in her ears. Her clothes clung to her skin where the fire seemed to have touched her. Her legs gave out beneath her; one foot throbbed with the pain of a burn, while the other felt numb — as if she couldn’t feel it at all.

Out of the swirling dust, as if pulled from hell itself, Vi appeared. Her face was cut, hair streaked with soot, clothes stained with blood and ash. She spotted her sister and ran — not to hug her, not to fall down beside her. No.

She grabbed Powder by the shoulders — and slapped her across the face so hard she fell backwards.

“You!” Vi screamed. “You did this!”

Powder gasped for air, staring up at her.

“I… I wanted to help… I did everything...”

“Help?!” Vi’s voice broke into a scream. “You killed them, Powder! Mylo, Claggor… Vander! THEY’RE ALL DEAD!”

The words sounded distant, unreal. All dead? No… that couldn’t be…

“How many times? How many times do you ruin everything and we forgive you?” Vi’s voice cracked. “I was always the one responsible for you. Always the one hauling you out of trouble. Because he asked. Because Vander said, ‘She’s your little sister. You have to protect her.’”

Vi’s shouting grew fiercer, her voice fraying, tears streaming down her cheeks. She stepped closer, looming — as if she herself had become an explosion.

“But Vander’s dead. That’s it. You’re on your own. I’m done dragging you around. You’ve always been useless, and nothing’s changed.

“Vi!” Powder sobbed, “Vi, I didn’t mean to — I’m sorry! Let’s go home!”

“We don’t have a home anymore. No family. All because of you.” Vi’s voice went cold. She turned away and walked off, never looking back.

Powder scrambled after her, grabbing her hand with trembling fingers.

“Don’t leave me! Please! I’ll fix everything!”

“You ruined everything.” Vi shoved her so hard Powder fell to the ground. “You’re a jinx, all you bring is destruction,” she hissed as she walked away.

She never looked back.

Powder lay on the cold ground, motionless. The old wounds from the blast throbbed dully, her chest felt crushed, nausea rising up.

Fire still raged somewhere nearby, casting flickering light over her. Her mind buzzed, breath ragged, consciousness sinking like underwater. Time lost all meaning. How long she lay there — a minute, an hour — she couldn’t tell. It all blurred together: ash, the roaring in her ears, tears, cracked lips, helplessness. Suddenly, the fading edge of her mind caught on the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Girl… what are you doing here? Where’s your sister?”

Powder tried to open her eyes, to say anything, but couldn’t. The world scattered at last — and darkness closed over her.

Now

Powder woke in convulsions. Her chest was burning; she coughed, gasping for air, and tried to sit up — but her body wouldn’t obey. Every movement hurt. She looked at her hands — they were clean, carefully bandaged, someone had tended her wounds, changed her dressings, cared for her.

She jerked her head — and froze.

In a chair by the wall, half-shadowed by the gloom, sat Silco. He watched her, his gaze free of threat or contempt. Her heart went cold. She knew him. Everyone did. The monster of Zaun, merciless, dangerous. She drew a ragged breath and tried to push herself up on her elbows, to crawl away, to press herself into the corner.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, almost in a whisper. “No one will hurt you here.”

He stood slowly, taking a step forward as if afraid to frighten her with sudden movement.

“You were unconscious. Wounded, covered in blood, lying among the wreckage,” his voice was low. “I found you there, on the very edge of hell, all alone.”

Powder listened and understood — he wasn’t lying. His words made her want to cry, not out of pain, but from how easy it was to believe him. From how much it burned, that simple ‘I found you’. As if he wasn’t just a witness to her fall, but the only one who reached out a hand. Something inside her began to tremble.

“I carried you out of that inferno,” he went on, coming closer still. “You were barely breathing. I gave you to Sevika — she treated your wounds, bandaged you, cared for you.”

Powder flinched. “Cared.” The word struck a spark in her mind. It was alien, forgotten. Care — that was something from when her mother was still alive, when Vi used to hug her and say it would all be okay.

Silco deliberately kept silent about the medicine he’d given her. She didn’t need to know. Not yet. He stepped up to the table and gently touched her head, as if asking permission. His palm was warm. He stroked her hair, carefully, almost fatherly.

“How are you feeling?”

Powder whimpered. Everything inside her clenched. She didn’t understand what was happening; her body shook from exhaustion, pain, and the fear of being here, with him.

Since childhood she’d heard of him as a monster from the legends — lurking in Zaun’s shadows. Silco. The traitor. They said he’d once been Vander’s closest friend, almost a brother. But he betrayed him, and for that, Vander tried to drown him in Zaun’s acid drains. Couldn’t finish the job — only left him there to rot alive. Since then, Silco’s scarred face had become a living reminder of that story.

The man approached silently, his movements unhurried, gentle. He lifted Powder easily, as if she weighed nothing, and set her on the edge of the table. He pulled a chair close, nearly touching, and sat, never taking his eyes off her. He watched her intently, unblinking, as if studying every detail of her face.

Powder squeezed her eyes shut, whimpered. Her lips trembled, her breath came uneven, her voice was barely audible:

“It’s because of me… I did this… I only wanted to help… I just wanted them… for Vi… And now they’re all dead because of me…”

Silco’s voice was quiet, but steady.

“What you did…” he looked straight at her, unwavering. “It’s not a mistake, not stupidity. It’s invention. Brilliant. Fearless. Perfect”

He spoke without a hint of doubt, and there was something terrifyingly convincing in it.

“I saw how it worked. I saw the result. None of my engineers could build anything even half as precise. But you did.”

He reached out, touching her face again, running his fingers over the scratched cheek, thinking he should apply salve once more.

“Yes, it killed. Because you don’t know how to use power yet. But it’s there. And if you learn to control it — even Piltover will bow their heads.”

Powder stared in astonishment. The fear that had gripped her insides began to loosen its hold. His voice, his gaze — there was neither threat nor pity in them. Only what she’d been desperately seeking all this time. Recognition. Acceptance. Warmth.

But it was not familial, not friendly. There was no pity, only something deeper and more dangerous. He didn’t see her as broken or helpless. He saw strength, potential. What others never noticed.

Silco — whose name in Zaun was both spell and curse — now sat before her, no longer frightening, no longer a stranger. There was softness in his voice, his gaze steady, confident, commanding, but in that command there was no threat. Only support, the kind you might rely on if you’d ever had someone you could call a father.

She dared to lift her eyes to his and asked, “What will happen to me?..” she whispered. “I have no family left. My sister… she left me. What now?..”

She hesitated, as if afraid of her own words, the sentence hanging in the air. Silco leaned forward, eyes shining with resolve.

“Your sister…” he said softly, but with a trace of steel. “She turned her back on you. But I haven’t.” He continued, “I see you. Not as a curse or a failure, but as strength and a brilliant mind.”

“You’re not broken, girl. You’re made for more. You just need guidance.”

Powder shivered, whispered,

“Vi… said I bring destruction. That I… ruin everything. Always…”

Silco smiled, and there was no mockery in his smile — only patience and certainty.

“Yes. You bring destruction,” he said. “But only because you don’t yet know how to use it for good.”

He brushed his finger over her shoulder, as if wiping away the ash of the past.

“I’ll help you. I’ll teach you. Guide you. Make you into what you’re meant to be.”

She looked at him, lost, half-blind from tears and pain. He took her chin, gently but firmly, making her look up.

“You need to accept your new self and let go of the past. Choose a new name,” he said.

“But my name is Po…—” her voice broke. Too much pain in the memories.

Silco leaned closer, looking into her eyes.

“Powder died on the bridge, after her sister abandoned her.”

He brushed her hair back.

“But you survived. So you’re not her anymore. It’s time to choose a new name, and with it, a new life.”

She sobbed, as if something inside her was breaking and coming back together.

“My sister called me… a jinx,” she whispered.

“Then let it be not her accusation — but your name.”

He whispered it, almost a blessing:

“From now on, both Zaun and Piltover will know you as Jinx. And believe me, they’ll hear about you.”

He pulled her into an embrace, holding her close as if shielding her from the whole world. And she didn’t resist. She was too tired.

And still, she could feel — in those arms was something more than warmth. Something dangerous. He held her as if only his arms could keep her from falling into the abyss.

And she believed him.

Because in that touch was more than care — there was power, a right to her. And she surrendered that right without even realizing it.

Her body remembered that gesture before her mind could. He was the only one who came when there was no one left. The only one who hadn’t pushed her away — who had drawn her closer instead.

For the first time — not Powder.

For the first time — Jinx.

Jinx didn’t know how long she’d stayed in his arms, but it ended as suddenly as it began. Silco slowly, firmly let her go.

“You need to rest,” his voice had regained its usual authority. “Sevika will bring you food. There’s a lot to do in the city right now. I’ll come back later.”

She nodded, as if she wanted to ask something else, but he was already gone, leaving her alone.

In the corridor, Sevika was waiting for him, arms folded, brow arched in silent question — she had heard everything.

“Eavesdropping?” he asked calmly, without slowing down.

“I’m keeping guard,” she shot back, striding alongside him.

Their footsteps echoed dully in the corridor as shadows thickened behind them, hiding the room where the girl remained.

“What are you going to do with her?” Sevika tried to sound indifferent, but failed, and they both knew it. “You’ll break her. She’s still a child, Silco. And you’re shaping her into a weapon.”

He stopped, exhaled in irritation, and looked at her.

“She brought the Hextech. Which means she knows where to find more. She’s got a talent for invention — rare, beyond her years. I want to see what she’s capable of if we guide her, teach her.”

“That’s all?” Sevika challenged. “You saved her, Silco, and now she’s yours — unconditionally. But you don’t know how to keep the ones who care for you safe. Only how to use them.”

He knew Sevika wasn’t just talking about the girl.

Her anger was not just disagreement — it was stubborn pain. The pain of someone who had once chosen him — completely, without leaving anything behind. He had pulled her out of misery, given her meaning, given her purpose. Since then, she had stayed by his side, even when it broke her. But she stayed because she believed in him, because she was loyal. And now she saw it happening all over again — only now, it wasn’t her.

“She’s still a child,” he breathed. “But the time will come — and the fire inside her will ignite. She’ll become what she’s meant to be — a force that will change everything.”

“Then don’t forget who’ll be the first to burn when that fire catches,” Sevika shot back. “Because you’re the one holding the fuse.”

Silence hung between them. She stood motionless, but he could sense the determination behind her mask — and the faint tremor beneath it. It unsettled him.

“I won’t break her,” he said quietly, tilting his head. “I’ll guide her. You know I never save anyone without a reason. And she could be our greatest advantage. She’s smart, she holds a power no one else can replicate. And if she becomes attached — all the better. Loyalty is stronger than fear. Stronger than obedience.”

His tone was flat, almost distant. Sevika shot him a sideways glance.

“All for the cause, huh?” she scoffed. “Then tell me, Silco… who is she to you, really?”

He didn’t answer. A flicker of annoyance, then wariness, crossed his face.

“Just a girl. A child fate threw in my path. I gave her a chance. That’s all.”

“No,” Sevika said firmly, holding his gaze. “It’s not that simple. Not in the way you look at her. Not in the way you held her — like you were afraid she’d disappear. Not in the way you said, ‘I found you’ — that’s not how you talk about a weapon. That’s how you talk about something lost and found again.”

She stepped closer, her voice low and steady, but there was a careful attention in it — as if she was feeling for a weakness no one else could see.

“Admit it,” she said quietly. “She’s not just a weapon. She’s a reminder. Of the life you once had. Or of what you lost. So what do you see in her, Silco? Who does she remind you of?”

“I think you’re out of line,” he replied, calm but unmistakably guarded. “She only reminds me of her mother, that’s all.”

Sevika tilted her head, almost condescendingly — almost with pity.

“I see you in her,” she went on.

Nothing flickered on Silco’s face. He drew in a sharp breath, inclined his head, and looked at her.

Just bring her some food,” he ordered. “And keep an eye on her. Enough with the stupid theories.

He turned and walked away. The shadows swallowed him.

Sevika was left alone. She waited, letting the silence settle.

And then, almost silently, she said:

“You call her a weapon, but you’ve already crossed the line. And by the time you realize it, it’ll be too late.”

Chapter Text

Twenty years ago

The inner world of little Sevika was filled with pain and loneliness.

Not that the other children in the undercity had it much better—most of them struggled just as hard. But at least some had families, or friends. Sevika had no one. She remembered her mother well: the tired face, the cough that wouldn’t stop for weeks, the practiced smile that froze on her lips just to make her daughter worry a little less. Her mother died when Sevika was six. In Zaun, a lung disease was a death sentence—medicine was expensive, almost impossible to get.

She never knew her real father, and after her mother’s death, she was left with her stepfather. People said he’d once been a decent engineer, but life broke him; he started drinking, slipped down to the bottom, and now his home was a damp basement in a crumbling house, and his work—selling whatever he could find in the junk heaps.

When Sevika grew older, the stepfather stopped working entirely, shifting the burden of survival onto her. By day, she stood behind a stall; by night, she prowled the alleys, the ruins, the storerooms, dragging home anything she could sell—lenses, cogs, tin lids, jars with the dregs of chemicals. Sometimes she was lucky enough to find something truly valuable, but more often it was just trash.

Years of hard work made her body tough and wiry, as if carved from stone. Her shoulders were broad, her arms strong, her hands as rough as any tradesman’s. With every year, she only grew sturdier, the kind of weary strength you see in those who’ve fought for everything since childhood.

Almost no one spoke to her. The boys would mock her or try to snatch things from her stall, but after being beaten back, they left her alone. Maybe some wanted to get at Sevika, but everyone knew—if she got angry, trouble would follow. She fought every time as if it were the last, never holding back. Even the local bullies who usually took money from the younger kids gave her a wide berth.

But if she was a storm on the street, at home she was just a target. The shouting began the moment she crossed the threshold. Her stepfather yelled at her, as if it was her fault they were poor, as if she was the one ruining his life. In time, yelling wasn’t enough—he began to hit her. Sevika tried to stay silent and not meet his gaze, hoping it would hold back his rage. But with each time the blows got harder, and the breaks between them—shorter.

She couldn’t fight an adult man, so she chose to become invisible—often running off to hide in empty hangars and vents. Zaun had plenty of hiding places, but not one felt like home. At night, she curled up under the humming pipes, and in the morning, as if nothing happened, went back to the market.

She knew Vander and Silco. The first—tall, broad, always smiling, loud-voiced. The second—quiet, as if always standing in the shadows, with a gaze that saw straight through you and a mind like a knife.

That day, hiding the bruises and split lip—her stepfather’s “gift”—Sevika noticed them approach her stall.

“Got any gears? Piltover ones, with the markings,” Vander asked.

“Fifteen copper each,” she muttered, not looking up.

“Whoa, steep price,” Vander laughed. “I’ll give you ten.”

Sevika glared at him from under her brow and repeated, flat and hard,

“Fifteen.”

“She’ll deck you if you try to haggle,” Silco smirked, unfastening a dark leather coinpurse and counting out the coins without any hurry. He always paid without arguing — as if money didn’t matter to him at all.

“What’s your name, strong girl?”

“Sevika.”

He tossed the coins onto the counter, took the parts, and was about to leave when Vander called over his shoulder:

“I hear you beat up boys in the street. If you get sick of selling gears, come fight on Saturday, seven o’clock, at the Rift. Pays better there.”

Ten years ago

By the time Sevika turned seventeen, fighting had become a constant part of her life.

A win in the ring paid little, and nobody pitied the losers. Sometimes, after the roughest matches, Sevika could barely make it home—more often, she didn’t even try. Behind the makeshift ring, there was always a free spot on the mats. That’s where she spent her nights, curled up under the hum of pipes, wrapped in an old jacket.

She was a first-rate fighter. Stubbornness, strength, and all the years of pent-up fury did their work: Sevika never backed down, never cried, never begged for mercy. Thanks to all the hard labor, she was tough, and the way life had hardened her left no room for pity—neither for herself nor for her opponent. Bit by bit, she gained a reputation in Zaun as the one who fought until the end.

One night, after another brutal match, Silco himself came up to her and held out a cloth pouch.

“This is for the win. I put my money on you.”

Sevika eyed the pouch suspiciously, opened it, and held her breath. Gold. More than she’d ever seen at once. A winning fight usually paid two, maybe three gold coins. Here, there were no less than thirty.

“I have an offer for you, Sevika,” he said, calm and deliberate, using her name on purpose. “I need a bodyguard. Someone I can trust. Someone who knows how to fight and won’t hesitate when it matters. I think you’d be a good fit. What do you say?”

“Thanks, but I’m fine right here,” Sevika lied. She wasn’t fine. But working for Silco meant giving up any hope of a quiet life. She knew: the only people who served him were those who weren’t afraid to die, or those who simply didn’t know how to live any other way.

He smirked, as if he’d read her mind.

“My offer stands. Think about it,” he said softly, then left her alone.

A few months passed after that conversation.

Silco still kept to the shadows behind his friend, but things were on the rise: some he bargained with, some he blackmailed, some he simply bribed. He built a fragile but steady bridge between Zaun and certain Piltover elites—a deal that let rare chemicals flow to the labs in exchange for access to Piltover tech.

Late one night, the man sat at his desk, poring over papers on resource sales, when someone knocked at the door. He wasn’t expecting visitors, and went tense. The knock came again, sharper this time.

With an irritated sigh, he picked up a knife, slipped soundlessly to the door, listened, and said,

“Who is it?”

“It’s me… please… open up.”

A voice on the other side—dull, rough-edged, barely above a whisper, coming apart at the seams. He recognized it at once.

Sevika.

He slid the bolt and cracked the door, peering through the gap. A girl stood on the threshold—soaked, shaking, her face twisted from crying. For several seconds, he just stared, unmoving. She edged forward, as if scared he’d slam the door shut.

“Please…” she whispered again, voice trembling with fear and pleading.

Silco opened the door wider, letting her inside.

Sevika stepped in and collapsed against the wall, as if her legs had simply stopped working. Her hands were covered in blood. Her face showed bruises and cuts. She didn’t look at him—only stared at the floor, gasping for air.

“He… started again,” her voice shook. “Yelled at me, as always… grabbed me… I tried to get away…” She swallowed hard, coughed. “I just… pushed him, and I didn’t mean—”

She sobbed suddenly, clamping a hand over her mouth.

“The enforcers will find me… you know they will, and they’ll execute me,” her voice wavered and cracked, every word coming out with effort. “I need to get away. I was hoping you could spare me a little money, enough to bribe them so I can leave the city. There’s no one else I can ask.”

She finally looked up at him—her eyes wet, lost, and filled with a child’s terror. Nothing like what people saw on the ring or the street. This wasn’t the girl who grew up among the refuse, who never flinched even in the face of the strongest opponent. Now she was just a girl—cornered, trembling, hurt far worse inside than out.

She fell silent, dropping her head in defeat. All she could do was ask. She knew Silco’s nature and couldn’t predict what he would do—walk away, turn her in; both seemed possible.

Silco stepped closer. Slow, deliberate. His gaze was cold, free of sympathy, which only made her shiver more. He stood over her, still watching from above.

“I knew he’d drive you to the edge someday,” he said quietly, almost matter-of-factly. “But you know, Sevika… you could have come to me sooner.”

She lowered her eyes, not knowing how to answer.

“And yet—” he shrugged, “—here you are. Now you want me to fix your problems.”

She said nothing. Still staring at him, lips trembling.

Silco waited a moment, then held out his hand—calm, no sudden moves.

“My offer still stands. Work for me, and you’re under my protection. The enforcers? I’ll deal with them. Blood on your hands? No one cares, if you’re useful.”

He spoke flatly, like a man used to delivering verdicts.

Sevika stared at his hand for a moment. Then, slowly, as if admitting defeat, admitting her need, her dependence—she put her hand in his.

Silco squeezed her fingers tight, helped her to her feet.

The gesture was deceptively simple, but Sevika felt it—right then, something changed forever. He didn’t just help her up. He pulled her out of the life where she’d never had a choice.

The man pulled a small cloth pouch off the shelf and tossed it to her.

“Buy yourself some proper clothes,” he said flatly. “Tomorrow you get a weapon. From today on, you live here. You go everywhere with me. You watch and you listen. Learn to see what others miss.”

He leaned in, looking her straight in the eyes.

“And from now on—no more tears.”

Sevika looked at him in the half-light, the heavy warmth of gold in her hands, emptiness in her chest. On the other side of that door was the old life—dirty, helpless, and lost. Ahead was a new one, even more dangerous and unpredictable.

The first time she saved his life was two months later.

That evening, Silco was on his way home after an especially successful deal, but his mood was dark. Vander had picked another fight with him—he disapproved of trading with Piltover, believed such deals stood in the way of Zaun’s independence, made the city dependent on those who had been trampling it for years. Silco, though, saw it as a resource. Dirty, dangerous, but effective. Money was needed—to feed people, to build, to buy weapons. But the idealist in Vander refused to see that.

“Why don’t you just climb onto my head while you’re at it,” Silco hissed at Sevika without turning. “Keep your distance. And walk quieter—you’re stomping around is driving me crazy.”

His emotional turmoil played a cruel joke on him. He got too lost in thought and wouldn’t let Sevika walk beside him, told her to keep back. He noticed movement—a moment too late. In the flickering, sickly yellow of the streetlamps, a shadow darted. The next second, a blade was pressed to his throat.

“Cough up the cash,” slurred a drunken man.

Silco was almost amused by the audacity. The attacker, judging by his accent and swagger, wasn’t local—no one from Zaun would dare come at him like this, not alone, not at night.

The surprise lasted only a second. Then—a muffled click, the quiet pop of a silenced shot echoing faintly in the alley. The attacker’s body dropped lifelessly at his feet, the blade clattering against the stones.

Sevika stood a little behind, holding a pistol. One precise shot, threat eliminated. No warning, no hesitation.

Silco turned, gave her a look of approval—said nothing. He knelt, searched the man’s pockets—empty, no ID.

“Find out if he was local,” he said as he straightened up. “If he was from here and still tried this, it means the city’s slipping out of control. In that case, we’ll need a whole new approach.”

Sevika nodded. The fingers gripping her gun were still shaking. She wanted to turn away, to run from the body, the smell of gunpowder, from Silco’s eyes—but she stayed. Stood straight, made it look like everything was under control.

It was her second kill.

What stunned her was how ready she’d been to kill for him. It wasn’t out of duty as a bodyguard, or even a fighter’s reflex, but something rawer—a need to save him. A flash of instinct, no calculation, just a desperate, burning thought: anything, as long as nothing happened to him.

He wasn’t close to her. He wasn’t a friend, a mentor, a lover. He never touched her gently, never said a word that could comfort. All he gave her was pay, a weapon, and a purpose. He’d ripped her from one life and placed her in another, made her part of his machinery. He never promised safety or pretended to be a savior.

And still—she saved him, without hesitation. Because the thought of something happening to him was unbearable.

Months went by. At first, they barely spoke. Sevika carried out his orders precisely and quickly—Silco never had to repeat himself. She accompanied him to meetings, stayed in the shadows as a bodyguard should, memorizing faces, gestures, threats—even when they came wrapped in polite words.

In the mornings, while he was busy with his own affairs, Sevika would leave for training. She transformed from an underground fighter into a weapon, guarding his every step. She learned to shoot—precisely, coldly, without hesitation—to recognize explosives, to read maps, to work in a team or alone. She mastered hand-to-hand combat techniques that had no flash, only efficiency. She knew how to pull someone out of a crowd unnoticed, and how to eliminate a threat before it realized it was one. Everything she learned served a single purpose: protecting his life.

Day after day, deal after deal, Silco’s power and influence grew like a snowball. He met with merchants, intermediaries from the Council, chemists, arms suppliers. He brokered deals, set up supply routes, built profits—and with them, power. Soon, warehouses, laboratories, and transport hubs were under his control. Money poured into the city, and with it came change.

Zaun’s residents could breathe a little easier—new filters, bought with funds Silco wrung from Piltover as “compensation for chemical resources.” There was more food in the markets; medicines were still expensive, but easier to get.

But beneath the city’s new veneer, Silco was preparing Zaun for war. The same routes that brought food and medicine quietly smuggled in weapons, ammunition, and chemicals. In secret training camps, out of sight, people gathered into squads, learning to shoot and fight. Everything happened quietly, as if the whole city was just one big mechanism, hiding under a mask of renewal. Silco was building a new order—and preparing the old one for destruction.

On the night before a big deal, Sevika couldn’t sleep. Something inside her was restless, warning her that tomorrow would be a bad day.

The meeting was supposed to be routine. The arms dealers—familiar faces, not entirely trustworthy but greedy enough to behave—had come from the direction of the Shadow Isles, using an old route, supposedly flying the flag of neutrality.

The cargo: rifles, ammunition, some chemical weapons, a couple of experimental devices. It was all things Zaun needed, and Silco was content with the price—substantial, but not extortionate. He sat at the table with confidence, leading the negotiations and smiling that predatory, careless smile that always hid calculation.

Sevika stood just behind him, an extension of his shadow, not missing a single movement. One of the dealers tapped his fingers on the armrest—too rhythmically, as if counting something inside his head. The other kept rubbing his temples, his eyes flicking toward the door more and more often. Something in their bodies, their intonations, the pauses between words—something was off. Sevika felt it in her gut, that creeping sense of danger, even if she couldn’t name it. The feeling only grew, clinging to her skin, until she was sure something was wrong.

Silco saw it, but kept pushing for his terms. In his view, the price should be lower. He talked calmly about supply conditions and volume, almost politely. The dealers didn’t object aloud, but their irritation simmered—it hung in the air, like a storm cloud about to burst.

Sevika’s nerves screamed—every creak of the floor cut through her, every gesture hit like a warning. Even the dust in the air felt too heavy.

It was that tension, stretched to the limit, that saved them. Sevika sensed the movement before it happened. In the next instant, she shoved Silco down to the floor, so that he ended up shielded behind the heavy wooden table.

A shot rang out. One of the guards lunged at Sevika. Chaos exploded—gunfire, screams, metal clattering.

Sevika pulled her pistol, leapt aside, and shielded Silco with her body. Two quick shots—one to the head of the closest man, another to the chest of the one reaching for a knife. Blood splattered the wooden partition. Someone ran for the door, but it was locked—and in that moment, Sevika realized this was no accident, but an ambush, planned from the start.

Silco was suddenly beside her, his expression unreadable, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. In a split second, he fired at the one sneaking up from behind—so fast the man didn’t even have time to be afraid.

Sevika darted out of cover, protected his back, and opened fire. Two more fell instantly, a third managed only a spasm. Then—cover again, a brief pause, reloading.

One left. When she stepped out and took aim, the gun just clicked—empty. Her hand shook, panic slicing through her focus. She looked down at the gun—a stupid move, just a heartbeat—but it was enough. The return shot came instantly, a burning bullet tearing through her shoulder. She cried out, dropping to her knees, the weapon falling from her hand.

Everything went dark. Pain exploded and spread, fogging her head. She couldn’t feel her fingers or hear her own breathing. The world shrank to a heartbeat in her ears, pounding out the realization that she might die. Right here.

For a moment everything blurred. The scrape of cloth, boots on the floor, a man’s voice—and suddenly, something else. Warmth. A voice she hadn’t heard in years:

“You promised me you’d study, go to the upper city, become someone different.”

Her mother. Sevika almost saw her—thin, tired eyes, always smiling through tears. The one who’d stroked her hair, even when her hands were too weak. The one who wanted her daughter to have another life. To leave Zaun. But Sevika had stayed. And now, here she was, bleeding out on a dirty floor, surrounded by corpses, ready to die.

A gunshot. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for pain. But there was none.

Because Silco shot first.

The man froze, then dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Get up. We need to go,” Silco said. For the first time, Sevika heard worry in his voice.

She tried to rise, but pain flared in her shoulder; she clenched her teeth to stifle a groan. He stepped closer, wrapped an arm around her waist, letting her lean on him.

Knowing these streets saved them—narrow alleys, hidden passages, stairs that led nowhere. In Zaun, only those who could disappear survived.

Silco’s people found them quickly. Sevika barely registered what was happening—pain blurred everything, turned time and reality into a haze. Faces, rough hands, flashes of light.

Through the fog, she heard his sharp order:

“Get a healer. Now. She’s your responsibility.”

Then he stepped to her, touched her cheek—his hand warm, slick with blood and sweat.

“It’s not serious, so don’t you dare die, Sevika. I’ve still got plans for you.”

She tried to smile, catching the irony in his voice, but everything inside her was already fading—a heavy darkness, swallowing up even the pain.

He gave her one last look—long, heavy. Then turned and walked away.

Because an ambush meant only one thing: someone had betrayed them. And betrayal called for only one thing — an investigation. And a clean-up.

It happened at night.

Not in the heat of battle, not in a moment of weakness, but in that kind of silence that exists only between two lonely people.

Sevika lay on the floor, breathing deeply, her forehead pressed against the cold boards. It had been at least twelve hours since the ambush. The bullet was out, the wound stitched, she’d been pumped full of painkillers, but now the ache was creeping back—persistent, dragging. The vial of medicine sat on the table, but she didn’t have the strength to reach for it.

Silco came back late. His coat slipped quietly off his shoulders, his steps fell silent in the half-light. He paused in the doorway when he saw her on the floor, stood there for a few seconds, then came closer and crouched beside her, soundless as a predator.

She was bracing herself for judgment: for how badly she’d failed today, for the misfire, for almost getting him killed because of her. She expected sarcasm, mockery, that cold “you can’t even stand up.” Anything but what actually happened.

He ran his hand through her hair, lingering just a little longer than necessary, and gently helped her sit up. His gaze slid over her face—pale, exhausted, but still stubbornly alive. Crossing to the table, he took the vial, filled the syringe, and gave her the painkiller in silence.

Sevika closed her eyes, and the mere thought that it would get easier soon filled her with gratitude. She tried to smile—weakly—but there was pain in it, and an unbearable, almost aching attachment to him.

“How did it go?” she asked, thinking he’d tell her who had betrayed them.

“For a moment, I thought I’d lose you,” he said, not at all what she expected. “You need to change your bandage—it’s already soaked through.” His tone left no room for argument as he reached for her shoulder.

Sevika shifted a little so it would be more convenient for him. Her movements were careful—because of pain, tension, and a sense of uncertain anticipation. The bandage really was soaked through, the fabric clinging to her skin. Silco pressed his lips together without saying a word, stood up, and went to get the first-aid kit.

He slowly cleaned his hands, soaked the bandages in water and alcohol, sat down beside her, and began carefully and attentively—almost as if he was afraid of causing her more pain—to wash the blood from the wound. Then he leaned in closer to examine the stitches, and at that moment, she felt his breath against her collarbone—and something inside her trembled.

It hit Sevika all at once, overwhelming and raw. Everything she’d tried not to notice, tried to burn out or ignore, flashed through her in an instant. His care. His nearness. The quiet, where he was simply there. She didn’t know what to do with it. She wasn’t used to being needed, didn’t believe she deserved care.

Still, she leaned forward, carefully, as if afraid to break this fragile moment, and pressed her cheek to his arm.

She barely breathed, just tried to memorize the feeling—in which, for the first time in ages, there was no fear. It was more than gratitude, more than attachment. It was dependence, the kind that grows out of emptiness and clings to any scrap of warmth.

She kept expecting him to pull away or say she was overstepping, but he didn’t move. And so she pressed closer, uncertain, like someone who’d always been denied the right to need anything.

And for a moment in that room, there was no past, no pain, no blood. Only the touch of two shattered, lonely souls. And a strange quiet, in which something changed between them forever.

“You’re not eating again,” he said quietly, as if it was regret, not a reproach.

“I’ve been like that since childhood. When you go hungry for a long time… you get used to the emptiness. You stop feeling hunger at all.”

He looked at her longer than usual, and in his gaze, she saw sympathy for the first time.

“I pay you enough to eat properly,” he said softly. “You should start. It’ll do your health good.”

She gave a faint smile, the first to break their closeness, pulling away.

He set aside the alcohol and bandages, getting ready to stand, but glanced at her again.

“Why do you sleep on the floor?”

“I got used to it as a kid. It’s comfortable for me.”

“Not tonight,” he said quietly. “Get into the bed.”

She looked at him, a little tense.

“And you?”

He smiled at the corner of his mouth.

“I won’t touch you. Not unless you want me to.”

She was silent for so long it was clear this was more than just a pause in the conversation. She wanted to look away, hide behind her usual bluntness, make a joke, curl up on the floor as always, and pretend nothing had changed.

But they both knew it wasn’t true.

He helped her up, and every step was hard. The pain from the wound faded compared to what was rising inside her. It was hunger—not for food or pleasure, but to be seen, needed, loved by him.

Night descended on Zaun, heavy and viscous, like the unspoken words that stretched between them. In this sprawling silence, Sevika could hear only her own heart — beating wildly, as if trying to escape her chest.

He lay beside her, never crossing her boundaries. She felt him with every cell of her body and didn’t dare move. She wanted to turn toward him, to press closer, to rest her head on his chest and hide herself inside him from everything that had ever caused her pain. But she didn’t know if she had that right — the fear of being rejected was stronger even than the pain of her fresh wound.

Holding her breath, she whispered,

“Thank you for not driving me out that night when I showed up. And for saving my life today.”

He said nothing, but in the next second his hand settled on her stomach, through the thin fabric, quietly, almost cautiously, as if he sensed that any sudden movement might break the fragile balance holding her together. Sevika, without thinking, covered his hand with hers — with that longing for closeness, almost painful, that she was afraid to admit even to herself.

In that silence, in that simple touch, met both the vulnerability she had hidden for years beneath armor and anger, and that dull, desperate hope that someone might love her, give her the warmth and care she so badly needed.

She met his gaze, and everything inside her twisted with helplessness — from knowing how easily he could turn away right now and leave her in that darkness she could never escape alone.

He moved closer, slowly, carefully, giving her time to pull away, hearing the frantic pounding of her heart. She reached out to meet him.

Was this closeness her weakness, or her solace? Sevika understood only one thing: it was a need, suffered and nurtured deep beneath layers of loyalty and service. She didn’t know when she began to need him, when duty had turned into something more.

And if, on this night, all of Zaun fell into the abyss, if the streets outside filled with fire and screams — she wouldn’t have noticed. Because her whole universe had shrunk to the one person lying beside her.

Morning in the undercity is just an extension of night. There is no sunlight here — only a heavy, gray fog that creeps through the streets, bearing silent witness and revealing what darkness has grown too tired to hide.

Sevika woke up earlier. She lay on the edge of the bed, turned away, curled up as if trying to take up as little space as possible. Her body ached from the unfamiliar closeness.

She understood: what happened was not about desire, or about being seen as important, or even about any weakness on his part. He had given her exactly as much warmth as was needed to bind her to him a little more tightly.

She was afraid to turn over, afraid to see emptiness in his eyes, but even more so — to see a trace of the night before. Because then, for sure, she wouldn’t have the strength to escape this dependence.

He moved, breathed heavily, got up without looking at her, quietly pulled on his shirt, fastening the buttons one by one. Everything in his movement was precise, collected, as if he had already returned to where feelings get in the way of business.

“You shouldn’t have,” he said, almost offhandedly.

Sevika flinched. She drew her knees up to her chest, trying to hide from herself. Shame swept over her—not because she’d done something wrong, but because she had given herself away too honestly.

She had never known what it was like — to be next to a man not in a fight, not in an argument, but in intimacy, allowing someone’s touch without tensing in fear of pain. To let herself be vulnerable, not out of weakness, but because she trusted. And though the night had passed between them almost without words, she managed to build a whole world out of that silence, to dream up all the promises he had never intended to make. The morning should have been a beginning, at least a hint of something more. She wanted to believe he might see in her not just a tool for his ambitions, but someone who could be loved.

But he dressed in silence, and his face showed not even a trace of love.

“Why?” she asked, her voice barely holding steady.

He didn’t answer at once. He turned, looked at her intently, and sighed. She would replay that moment over and over, trying to understand what was hidden behind the tiredness in his eyes.

“Because you’ll start to expect things. And I can’t make promises. Not to you. Not to myself.”

She sat up a little, hugging herself, pulling the blanket higher to cover her nakedness, feeling exposed as she looked at his face — he regarded her calmly, and that hurt even more. Tears pricked her eyes and she felt a sob rising in her throat.

“I’m not expecting anything,” she whispered, hearing how weak it sounded.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said softly, almost with a gentleness that stung.

He stepped closer and sat beside her. She didn’t flinch but didn’t move either, just froze, as if any motion might shatter what was left of her dignity. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to cry right in front of him.

He ran his hand through her hair, slowly, almost absentmindedly. His fingers slid to her neck and lingered there longer than necessary. He’d done the same the night before, and then it felt like tenderness — now, it was more like he was checking to make sure that invisible collar was still there, the one she had willingly accepted when she gave him power over herself.

“We agreed,” his voice grew quieter. “No more tears.”

Sevika didn’t answer. She just squeezed her eyes shut tighter, as if that could shield her from what had already happened.

“I have to go. Rest today — take it as a day off.”

He was almost at the door when he paused for a moment and looked back.

“And don’t forget to eat,” he added with a faint smile.

He left without looking back, and Sevika remained in his bed, surrounded by silence. Everything she’d clung to before that night had fallen apart. Instead of the love and warmth she so desperately hoped for, he left her only emptiness, ringing with pain at every breath.

She didn’t even try to convince herself that everything was fine: the sharp, all-consuming feeling of loneliness and being unwanted crashed over her. And when it became unbearable, for the first time in a long time, she let herself cry.