Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ekko balanced the sushi bag on one arm and clutched the wine to his ribs. Zaun’s wind cut sideways down the alley, sharp and sour. The kind that reminded you what it felt like to be scraped open, slow.

Didn’t bother him tonight. Tonight was supposed to be okay.

Two years.

He hadn’t done this since high school. That one ended in six days and a stolen hoodie.

Zeri was messy and loud, but she didn’t crowd him when he went quiet. That used to be enough.

That used to be enough.

The elevator groaned up to the fourth floor. Same hallway. Same busted light.

He knocked, more muscle memory than thought. Reached for the key.

The door creaked open. Unlocked.

He stepped inside. First thing that hit him was the sound.

A gasp. Too close. Too familiar.

His gut dropped like an elevator with the cables cut.

He set the wine down on the counter. Neat. Careful. Like it mattered.

Hallway carpet. Her jacket. Her boots. A second pair.

The space in his ribs caved in.

He walked down the hall. Slow. Like his brain hadn’t caught up to his body yet.

Bedroom door.

Zeri. On top of someone.

Claggor.

The second she saw him, her whole body jolted. Like she’d seen a ghost instead of the guy who told her last night, “Be home around eight.”

Claggor’s face twisted. Panicked. “Shit, man—fuck—”

Ekko stared.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t yell. Didn’t break.

Zeri grabbed at the sheet. “Ekko—wait, I didn’t—I didn’t think you were—”

He turned. Walked out.

She scrambled after him. Bare feet, half-naked. The kind of desperate that comes too late.

“Please just listen—”

He didn’t stop.

“You don’t let me in!” she shouted, voice cracking. “You build your shit and disappear into your own world and expect me to orbit around it—”

He stopped. Looked at her.

“You could’ve talked to me,” he said, voice flat. “Instead, you fucked my coworker.”

Zeri flinched like he’d slapped her.

She reached out.

He pulled back hard. She stumbled. Caught herself on the wall.

Claggor stood in the hallway now. Shirtless. Quiet.

“Ekko, man,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean for it to—”

Ekko’s glare shut him up. Just for a second.

But Claggor said it anyway.

“I thought you two were already falling apart.”

Ekko stared at him.

Left the sushi on the counter. Wine sweating beside it.

Then turned and walked out.

The air outside felt different. Not colder. Just… meaner.

His phone buzzed once. Then again.

[Zeri, 10:47 PM]

It didn’t mean anything. I was pissed. I was drunk. You’re always busy. I needed something.

He stopped under a half-dead streetlight. Thumb hovering over the screen.

Typed:

You needed someone who didn’t give a fuck about you. Congrats.

Deleted.

Typed:

He was right. We were falling apart. You just made the process faster.

Deleted.

Typed:

Fuck both of you.

Paused.

Deleted.

He stared at the screen. Saw himself reflected in the black glass.

Didn’t look angry. Just... finished.

He remembered being eleven. Asking Benzo if heartbreak felt like dying.

—

Benzo didn’t look up from his tools. Just said,

“Like bein’ stuck in a house someone you care about burned down. You just sit there, coughin’ up smoke, wonderin’ if it’s your fault for not noticing the flames.”

—

Ekko almost laughed.

Almost.

He typed:

Thanks for the clarity.

Deleted.

He threw the phone across the tram platform. It clanged off the bench, bounced once, spun, and stopped.

Didn’t shatter.

Of course it didn’t.

He sat down. Head in his hands. City buzzing behind him like it had somewhere better to be.

No tears. No burning throat.

Just that steady pressure. Like something had been sitting on his chest for weeks and finally caved in.

Claggor.

The same guy he’d been eating takeout with all week.

Same guy who laughed at his dumb jokes.

Same guy who'd nodded when he said, “Thinking sushi. Wine. Keep it simple.”

He shook his head like it might shake the memory loose.

Snake.

Ekko stood.

Picked up the phone. Screen cracked now. Still working. Like everything else that refused to break when it should’ve.

He turned it off.

Walked home.

Zaun didn’t give a shit that his night blew up. It just kept moving—grinding, leaking, flickering like it always did.

By the time he made it back to the apartment, Ekko’s hands were numb.

The place was dim, quiet—except for the low hum of the TV.

Ezreal was passed out on the couch.

PS5 controller still in one hand.

Half a pretzel dangling from his mouth.

The screen frozen on the pause menu of Clair Obscur: Expedition 33.

Ekko stood in the doorway for a moment.

Just… taking it in.

Then walked to his room.

Shut the door behind him.

Sat on the edge of the bed.

Breathed.

Didn’t bother trying to sleep.

Didn’t need to.

Just sat there in the dark.

Not thinking about Zeri.

Not thinking about Claggor.

Just sitting with the fact that he saw it coming—

—and still showed up with fucking sushi.

Weeks passed without rhythm. Just noise.

Ekko didn’t post. Didn’t scroll. Barely touched his phone.

Until the algorithm cut his knees out.

A tagged story. Zeri, half-drunk and draped over some faceless girl. Happy in that way people get when they’ve stopped pretending to miss you.

“Living my best life ❤️ @CLUBVERTIGO”

Swipe. Another drink. Another blurry flash of light and skin.

He locked the screen and flipped the phone face-down with more force than necessary.

The room hummed. A half-built prototype blinked beside his laptop. Whiteboards stared blankly back at him, cluttered with equations nobody cared about right now.

No music. No background noise. Just the same air he hadn’t bothered to change in days.

Zeri hadn’t texted. Not a “sorry,” not a “how are you,” not even a fake-ass emoji.

Maybe she was done. Maybe he was just an old tab—closed and forgotten, no warning.

A crunch of boots outside.

Then the door flung open.

Ezreal barged in, shirtless and chewing a dry ramen brick like it owed him money. His hair looked electrocuted. “Jesus, man. Did something die in here? Besides your will to live?”

Ekko didn’t glance up. “You need something?”

Ezreal stepped over a scattered tangle of wires like a man who lived in chaos and judged others for it. “Yeah. I need you to stop marinating in sadness and smell like a person again.”

“I’m working.”

“Liar,” Ezreal said, tapping the workbench with his free hand. “You’re doing that thing where you pretend to fix something because fixing yourself is harder.”

Ekko set the wrench down. Slow. Deliberate. “You’re not funny.”

“You’re not subtle,” Ezreal shot back. “Two weeks of this. You haven’t left the apartment except to microwave leftovers and aggressively ignore daylight.”

Ekko turned his chair halfway, just enough to glare. “Zeri cheated on me.”

“Yup.”

“With Claggor.”

Ezreal crunched louder. “Still yup.”

Ekko stared. “You’re really eating ramen in the middle of this?”

“I’m multitasking. Also, this is the good kind. Spicy beef. Have some respect.”

Ekko snorted—more breath than sound.

Ezreal dropped the crumbs on the table and leaned in. Less flippant now. “Look, I know it sucks. I know it feels like getting hit by a truck driven by someone you thought loved you. But she’s gone, man. And while she’s out there making bisexual chaos, you’re here turning into a sad little science goblin.”

Ekko rubbed a hand over his face. “Don’t call me that.”

Ezreal grinned. “Then don’t act like it. Shower. Put on real pants. We’re going to Lux’s party.”

“No.”

“Yes. Also, Lux’s apparently emotionally complicated best friend is going to be there. Totally your type.”

"I don’t have a type,” Ekko muttered.

“Sure you do,” Ezreal said confidently. “Self-sabotaging, emotionally unavailable, and capable of physical harm. Check, check, and check.”

Ekko stared blankly. “You think I want to hook up right now?”

“No,” Ezreal said, deadpan. “I think you want to rot alone in this cave and think sad thoughts until you forget what normal feels like. But we’re not doing that.”

Ekko didn’t answer. Just glanced at the untouched sketchbook beside his laptop. Then at the prototype that hadn’t changed in days.

Ezreal saw the pause. Drove the nail in.

“Worst case, you stand near people and pretend to laugh. Best case? You remember how to flirt. Remember flirting? You used to be good at that. Before your heart exploded.”

Ekko hesitated, jaw tense. The silence stretched just long enough to mean something.

Then: “If I go… I’m not talking to anyone.”

Ezreal threw his arms up. “Deal! That’s more human behavior than you’ve managed in days. Now go shave that depression off your face and put on something that doesn’t smell like betrayal.”

Ekko sighed. Long. Heavy. Then got up without another word.

Ezreal called after him, grinning, “That’s right! Let the hoe phase begin!”

A muffled “shut up” echoed down the hall.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind him.

The mirror didn’t lie.

Ekko looked like someone who’d spent three years trying to outrun something and finally tripped.

Not a disaster.

Just tired.

Worn down at the edges.

He pulled his locs into a high ponytail, clipped them tight, then faded the sides with steady hands. The low hum of the clippers filled the bathroom—constant, grounding.

Not symbolic.

Just necessary.

He shaved his beard stubble next. Slow. Careful. Each swipe of the blade pulling a little tension out of his jaw.

In the shower, he scrubbed off the last two weeks like peeling off a second skin. Steam blurred the glass, fogged the noise in his head.

Afterward, he moved with quiet purpose—into the bedroom, locs pulled back into a ponytail, skin still damp.

He dressed without thinking: black tee, black jeans, clean white sneakers. The green bomber from last spring—the one that still faintly smelled like citrus and pavement.

He didn’t check the mirror again.

He didn’t need to.

As he adjusted his jacket, something caught the edge of his vision.

The photo on the nightstand.

Old. Faded. Smudged in one corner.

Powder, back when that name still fit. Grinning with too many teeth.

Vi, holding them both in place like nothing could touch them.

And him—lighter. Before the fire. Before any of them broke.

The frame sat crooked. Had for weeks.

Ekko stared. Then reached out and left it that way.

Some things weren’t meant to straighten.

He turned and walked out.

The bass hit first.

It pulsed through the pavement like Lux’s house had a heartbeat. Ekko stood outside, jaw locked, fists shoved deep in the pockets of his bomber jacket. The air reeked of citrus vape and youth trying too hard.

Inside, Ezreal had already vanished halfway through the door—golden boy lit up like it was his damn birthday.

“You standing there like you’re security,” Ezreal called back. “Get in here and pretend you're fine like the rest of us.”

Ekko didn’t answer. He just walked in.

The living room was drowning in neon. Laser strips pulsed from corners, bodies pressed together like stickers on a laptop. Zaun kids, Piltover alums, a few clout-chasers looking for someone to film them dancing offbeat. Laughter spilled out over the music like carbonation.

And at the center of it, glowing like she owned the place—Lux.

She spotted them instantly, face lighting up under glitter-caked eyeliner.

“Ezreal!” she yelled, arms already opening like she might throw herself at him.

She didn’t.

She hugged him, quick and sideways, already looking over his shoulder.

At Ekko.

“You actually came,” she said, voice softening.

Ekko shrugged. “Didn’t have a better excuse.”

Lux rolled her eyes and squeezed his arm. "I owe Ezreal a drink now. He bet you wouldn’t.”

Ezreal’s grin was shameless. “Your lack of faith is hurtful.”

Lux rolled her eyes fondly, quickly pulling Ekko into a hug that felt genuine. “I'm glad you're here. Even if he dragged you out.”

“Guess I kinda needed it,” Ekko admitted softly.

Lux’s eyes softened knowingly. “Good. Consider tonight therapy—just louder and less effective.”

Their banter buzzed with something warm and familiar. For a second, Ekko almost relaxed.

Then—

She walked in.

The room didn’t go quiet. The world didn’t stop.

But he did.

Blue hair, long and loose—

the side-bang still falling over her right eye like a curtain drawn halfway.

She wore a cropped black denim jacket over a burgundy halter dress that dipped low enough to send messages without postage.

Combat boots, naturally. Because of course.

Jinx.

Not Powder. Not the kid from the Lanes.

This version? She looked dangerous. Composed. Like she’d figured out how to turn chaos into armor.

Ekko’s gut tightened.

He wasn’t ready. Not tonight.

Not with the betrayal still raw in his chest from Zeri.

Not with the last time he’d seen Jinx still branded behind his eyes like a cigarette burn.

For a moment, he was back there—

Rooftop. Piltover. City lights leaking into darkness.

Her eyeliner a mess. Her laugh sharp and sour.

She shoved him.

“You don’t get to guilt-trip me,” she snapped. “You left too.”

“You pushed me away." 

“Exactly.” Her voice cracked, but she didn't flinch.. “I didn’t need saving, Boy Savior.”

—

A hard nudge yanked him back to the now.

“Ekko?” Ezreal’s voice cut in, way too loud over the bass. “Dude. You good?”

He blinked, dragging himself back from the edge. “Yeah. Just… saw a ghost.”

Ezreal followed his gaze—and stopped.

“No way. Is that… that’s her , right? Your old childhood friend - the girl from the photo on your nightstand?”

“She’s not my anything,” Ekko muttered.

Ezreal arched a brow but didn’t push. He just stared at her like she was a cipher with a kill count.

“You’re right,” he said dryly. “She looks super uncomplicated. Totally not your type.”

Ekko sighed. “Shut up, Ez.”

Lux appeared beside them, nudging Ezreal with her elbow like she’d heard enough. “Try to behave. That’s Jinx—my best friend.”

Ezreal blinked. “That’s your bestie?”

His jaw dropped slightly. “What the hell, Lux—why are all your friends hot and vaguely threatening?”

Ekko’s jaw flexed.

Ezreal saw it. “Shutting up now,” 

Lux rolled her eyes and grabbed Ezreal’s hand. “Come on, let’s go say hi.” She tossed Ekko a look—half apology, half ‘don’t start shit’—before pulling Ezreal toward the eye of the storm.

Ekko followed, feet heavy. His heart was pounding like it had opinions.

Jinx saw them coming.

Her expression didn’t change much—just cooled. That lazy, unreadable kind of neutral that didn’t hide shit but dared you to pretend it did. Then, just before they reached her, she smiled. Small. Crooked. Mean and polite at the same time.

Her eyes hit Ekko’s like a slap in slow motion—sharp, assessing, too familiar.

“Jinx, this is Ezreal,” Lux said, breezy. “Professional charmer. Full-time pain in my ass.”

Ezreal dipped into a dramatic bow. “You must be the bestie. Heard a lot about you.”

“Nice to meet you, Blondie.” Her tone was mild, but her eyes never left Ekko. “Most of it lies, I hope.”

“Only the flattering stuff.”

“Unfortunate.”

Ezreal grinned like he’d just lost at poker and enjoyed it anyway. Lux pretended not to laugh.

Jinx’s eyes flicked back to Ekko—lingering. Calculating.

“Hey, Little Man.”

It hit his ribs like a steel-toe.

“Hey, yourself.”

She tipped her head toward Lux. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Ekko’s smile was all teeth, no warmth. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Oh well,” Jinx said. “World’s full of disappointments.”

The group let out a polite, awkward laugh that trailed off fast.

Lux cleared her throat. “I’m grabbing drinks,” she chirped, already tugging Ezreal by the wrist. “Ezreal, come protect me from small talk.”

“Say less,” he replied, casting a look at Ekko before letting himself get dragged.

And just like that, they were alone.

The silence hit like a slap.

Jinx watched the others disappear into the crowd. “Didn’t peg those two as a thing.”

“They’re not,” Ekko said. “Ezreal’s been orbiting her for years. She just likes watching him spin.”

Jinx snorted. “Respect. Persistence is sexy—when it’s not creepy.”

Another beat.

Then—

“So,” she said. “Still building shit to avoid dealing with your shit?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Still pushing people away before they get too close??”

She didn’t flinch. “Better than letting people hang around just to watch the implosion.”

They both drank. Neither looked away.

“You don’t wear your locs down anymore,” she said, softer now.

He touched the base of his ponytail without thinking. “You remember that?”

“Yeah. You used to say it helped you think.”

“Still does. But sometimes it’s easier to look put together.”

“I liked it better down.”

He glanced at her. Steady. Careful. “You look—” 

“Older?” she offered.

“Different.”

She snorted. “You still look the same. Less teenage angst, more... professional brooding.”

“Didn’t know there was a difference.”

“Oh, there is,” she said, taking another sip. “Brooding gets you laid. Angst gets you left on read.”

He let out a quiet, real laugh. “You always liked me better miserable.”

“Miserable’s predictable,” she said. “At least then you know what you’re dealing with.”

He tilted his head. “And you still wear boots like you’re waiting to kick someone’s ass.”

Jinx smiled faintly, looking down at them. “Maybe I am.”

A pause.

A breath too long. A stare too deep.

Then—

“So… eight years?” he asked.

Jinx shrugged. “Something like that.”

“Long time.”

“Depends who’s counting.”

Their eyes locked.

Held.

Then Lux’s voice broke the spell: “Hey! You two! We’re playing beer pong!”

Jinx didn’t move at first. Her eyes lingered.

Then she straightened. “Guess that’s our cue.”

“Guess so.”

They walked toward the game—side by side, careful not to brush shoulders. The past followed like a ghost, silent and sharp, just a step behind.

The makeshift beer pong table was already surrounded—half-drunk partygoers leaning on counters, howling over missed shots like it was the Olympics. Lux stood at the edge, waving her arms like a drunk air-traffic controller.

“Alright, Zaun vs. Piltover ,” she declared. “Old trauma, new rules. Let’s go.”

Ezreal grinned like a man with zero impulse control. “Callin’ dibs on Lux. We’re the dream team.”

“Not unless your dream is losing,” Jinx muttered, sliding in beside Ekko.

He glanced at her. She was already rolling up her sleeves.

“You good with this?” he asked quietly.

She smirked. “Please. I used to shoot pigeons off rooftops with a bent spoon. I can handle a ping pong ball.”

“Disturbing, but noted.”

They stepped into place across from Lux and Ezreal. Cups were already stacked pyramid-style at each end of the table, glowing faintly under the LEDs like sacrificial offerings. Lux handed them balls. Jinx spun hers in her fingers like a coin she was about to bet her life on.

Ezreal was up first. He made a big show of stretching—flexing dramatically while Lux groaned and half-shoved him.

“Watch the form,” he said, lining up his shot.

It bounced off the rim and into a bowl of pretzels.

“Tragic,” Jinx said, deadpan.

“Foreplay,” Ezreal replied.

Jinx made a gagging sound. “Yikes.”

Ekko stepped up, rolled his shoulders, and fired—clean arc, smooth as muscle memory.

Splash.

“Boom,” he said, barely reacting.

Lux cursed under her breath and downed her cup like a champ.

Jinx raised a brow. “Still got good aim.”

Ekko didn’t look at her. “Some things don’t rust.”

Jinx’s turn. She tossed the ball without looking.

Splash.

Ezreal blinked. “Are you kidding me?”

She blew a mock kiss across the table. “I don’t miss.”

“You miss me every time I text you,” Lux muttered, shooting her a look.

Jinx smirked. “That’s not a miss, babe. That’s target avoidance.”

They kept going.

The crowd got louder. The table got wetter. The air got hotter.

Ezreal leaned into the camp. “Yo, Ekko,” he called, already tipsy. “How’s it feel teaming up with your old childhood friend who ghosted for almost a decade?”

Ekko didn’t flinch. “Better than losing to a guy who wears boat shoes without socks.”

The crowd let out a collective oooh.

Lux nearly choked on her drink.

“God, I forgot how you two talk,” she laughed. “Like every sentence is loaded.”

Jinx glanced at Ekko. “Some of them are.”

Next round.

Ekko missed.

Barely.

Jinx didn’t say anything—but she leaned a little closer as he stepped back beside her.

“Still not over it?” she asked, voice low.

He looked at her, dead-on. “Over what?”

She just smiled.

Ezreal’s next throw bounced off a cup, then the table, and hit the floor.

Lux yelled, “Boo! Boo this man!”

Jinx stepped up again. She aimed, paused—then tossed the ball with surgical precision.

Another hit.

Another cup down.

Ekko muttered, “Showoff.”

“You love it,” she whispered back.

Their fingers brushed as she handed him the next ball.

He didn’t pull away.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Jinx’s smile faltered for half a second.

Then he took the ball and made the shot.

Splash.

A cup sloshed beer across the table. Lux hissed and chugged.

Ezreal missed again and started yelling at the ball like it betrayed him. Lux was tipsy, flushed, laughing at everything.

Ekko’s lips twitched.

Jinx said nothing—but her next shot missed.

Ekko glanced sideways at her. “You okay?”

She twirled the next ball on her palm, feigning nonchalance. “Careful. You sound like you still give a shit.”

He didn’t answer.

Jinx shot.

Missed again.

And this time, her jaw twitched.

Across the table, Ezreal noticed. He leaned toward Lux. “Lux, did you feel that? That was the vibe shift.”

Lux held up a hand. “Ssssh. Let the ghosts haunt each other.”

Final shots.

Ezreal managed a hit.

Lux cheered and tried to high-five him but missed. "We’re so good at this.”

Ekko sank his last cup.

Jinx didn’t throw.

She spun the ball on the table instead, watching it wobble. Her eyes flicked up to meet his.

“Still playing it safe, huh?”

Ekko didn’t blink. “Still running when shit doesn’t go your way?”

A breath. She tilted her head, the smile she gave him too soft to be sincere.

“That why you didn’t follow?”

That landed.

His jaw flexed. The air between them got tighter, meaner.

“You don’t get to ask me that.”

She smiled again, slower this time. Like she’d expected it. Like it still stung anyway.

“Classic.”

Then she threw.

Missed.

And didn’t react.

Game over.

Cheers erupted. Lux whooped. Ezreal kissed his own bicep.

But Jinx didn’t react. She stood still, staring at the table like it had betrayed her.

Ekko leaned in close—low, quiet, not smug.

“You never miss.”

“I need another drink,” she muttered, avoiding his gaze, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Ekko watched her go, chest tight, realizing too late that he'd pushed a little further than he'd meant to. He sighed quietly, leaning back into the couch, wondering if any part of tonight would stop feeling like a mistake.

After a while the crowd moved on.

Another round of beer pong started without them—new teams, louder cheers, someone screaming about house rules that didn’t exist. Jinx never came back with that drink.

Ekko stayed seated, elbow on his knee, watching the chaos unfold like he wasn’t a part of it. Maybe he wasn’t. Not really. Not tonight.

Lux passed by at some point, handing him a shot and squeezing his shoulder like she could read his thoughts. Or maybe she just saw the same ghost he did.

The music changed—slower now, like the speakers were tired. The kind of songs you only play when the party starts dissolving and people start remembering their exes. Ezreal called it “vibe shift,” but it felt more like fallout.

Ekko downed the shot and stood, shoulders tight. He scanned the room, looking for blue hair, a flash of boots, a lemon-spray shadow—but found nothing. She wasn’t at the table. Not in the kitchen.

He found her back in the living room instead. Leaning against the wall near the speaker, solo cup dangling like it didn’t matter. Like none of it did.

She didn’t look at him when he approached. Just tipped her head toward the ceiling like the weight of being here had started to press down again.

And then the next song came on.

The bass had long given up.

The crowd thinned to stragglers and sprawlers—some half-asleep on couches, others disappearing into bedrooms like bad decisions waiting to happen. Neon lights dimmed to a lazy, predatory red that made everyone look drunker, softer, more breakable.

In the middle of it all, Lux grabbed Ezreal by the wrist and yanked him toward the cleared living room floor.

“Come on,” she said, breathless and bright. “You made me suffer through beer pong and your tragic playlist. Your ass is dancing.”

Ezreal raised both arms like he was headlining Coachella. “The people demand it.”

“What people?”

He twirled her with a flourish, clearly tipsy, clearly enjoying himself. “You, baby. Just you.”

In the corner, Ekko leaned against the wall, solo cup long drained, thumb running circles along the rim. He wasn’t against dancing. He just didn’t see the point when half his body was still somewhere in the past.

Next to him, Jinx mirrored his lean, empty cup dangling from her fingers like a forgotten weapon. One boot tapped along to the slow, aching pulse of the next track.

Radiohead.

A breath. A beat.

“I’m a creep…”

She squinted at the speaker, grimaced. “Jesus. Who the hell picked this ?”

“You hate this song?”

“I hate what it does to my insides. Especially when I’m drunk.”

Ekko let out a short, humorless laugh.

Out on the floor, Lux leaned into Ezreal’s shoulder. He whispered something that made her shove him—but not move away.

Jinx watched them for a moment, head tilted. Then she cut her eyes at Ekko.

“You gonna keep brooding near the snack table, or move before your spine fuses?”

“Didn’t realize you were worried about my joints.”

“I’m not. I just hate standing still when I’m buzzed. Makes me feel like I’m dying.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So this is you asking me to dance.”

She gave him a flat look. “It’s me threatening to punch you if you don’t.”

He sighed. “Romantic.”

“Bite me.”

He offered his hand. “You first.”

She stared at it like it was a live wire. Then—eyeroll, sigh, palm against his.

They moved awkwardly at first. Too stiff to be natural, too close to be casual. Her hand hovered near his shoulder like she wasn’t sure how far was too far. His barely touched her waist.

“God, this is awkward,” she muttered.

“Yep.”

“You still have no rhythm.”

“You’re drunk.”

“So are you.”

“Then we probably look amazing.”

Across the room, Ezreal spotted them and shot Ekko an exaggerated thumbs-up, mouthing: Get it.

Lux leaned in, grinning. Jinx caught her glance and flipped her off without missing a beat.

Ekko laughed, low and real.

Jinx felt it under her hand—warm and stupid and real —and something shifted. Her fingers slid slightly higher on his shoulder, thumb grazing the edge of his collar.

“I forgot what this felt like,” she said.

“The party?”

“No.” Her eyes flicked somewhere distant. “Us. In each other’s space. Not yelling.”

Ekko’s chest tightened. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t trust what would come out.

Their movement slowed—not awkward now. Just heavy. Measured. Like gravity was handling it for them.

“You really did grow up,” she said, watching him. “Kinda hate that.”

“You didn’t think I would?”

“I thought you’d be colder. Angrier. Hollow, maybe.”

He blinked. “Thanks?”

“I mean, you did get hotter.”

He choked out a laugh. “There it is.”

“But less punchable. Which is disappointing.”

“I worked hard on that.”

Their eyes locked.

The rhythm of the song faded into the background. Her head tipped forward, barely, landing softly against his chest. She exhaled against him—warm, buzzed, and unguarded.

He hesitated.

Then his arms settled around her, slow, unsure. Her fingertips traced absent shapes along the edge of his collarbone.

She still smelled like vodka, smoke, and something faintly floral. She still felt like trouble. Still felt like home.

“Remember racing through the Lanes?” she murmured. “You always cheated.”

“Strategy,” he murmured back.

“You elbowed me into a wall.”

“You shoved me into a dumpster.”

She grinned, lips against his shirt. “I left you in a trash chute once.”

“Still found a way out.”

“I thought you’d cry.”

“I almost did,” he said, smirking.

She pulled back just far enough to look at him. Her face wasn’t smirking anymore.

It was open. Bare. Fucking dangerous.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe the song. Maybe the fact that eight years had passed and they still hadn’t burned clean.

But suddenly their faces were too close. His thumb brushed the curve of her waist. Her fingers ghosted up his neck.

He parted his lips.

About to speak.

Or lean in.

Or—

Darkness.

The music cut mid-line. The lights died completely. Someone screamed—dramatic and drunk.

Ekko’s hand dropped like it had been caught doing something illegal.

Jinx didn’t move at first. Just blinked. Still pressed against him.

Then: “Wow,” she muttered. “God himself said nope.”

From the kitchen:

“Ezreal?!” Lux’s voice, equal parts amused and pissed.

Ezreal, smooth as ever: “Shhh. You taste like tequila.”

“You’re a walking red flag.”

“Yeah, but I come with a safety manual.”

“Ez. You are the manual. And it’s just a bunch of red pages.”

“Exactly. I’m self-aware and fully illustrated.”

Jinx groaned, loud and dramatic. “Make it stop.”

Ekko stepped back, scratching the back of his neck like he’d just been unplugged from a dream. “Guess we missed our cue.”

She looked at him in the glow of someone’s phone flashlight. Her expression unreadable.

Then: “Relax,” she said dryly. “You’re not that smooth.”

He smirked, barely. “Didn’t say I was.”

The tension didn’t leave. It just slid under the floorboards.

Someone yelled, “Breaker’s in the basement, dumbasses!”

Another voice: “It’s Lux’s neon fridge again!”

Lux shouted back: “It’s retro, asshole!”

Jinx turned slightly, still facing Ekko. 

Neither said anything else, standing quietly in the darkness, the unspoken words hanging between them—just another missed step in a dance neither fully remembered how to finish.

Somewhere in the house, someone lit a candle. Somewhere else, someone dropped a bottle.

The moment passed. But it didn’t leave.

It just waited.

Chapter Text

The lights came back like a slap—too bright, too fast, like the blackout never happened.

People cheered. Music picked up like it hadn’t missed a beat. Conversations snapped back like rubber bands. No one acknowledged the glitch—too busy pouring new drinks and reapplying lip gloss over vodka breath.

Across the room, Lux and Ezreal finally detached.

Ezreal looked like he’d been lovingly hit by a train—still clutching a shot glass with the religious conviction of someone who believed in tequila as a coping mechanism.

Lux had lipstick halfway to her cheekbone, laughing like she knew something no one else did.

Jinx rolled her shoulders under her jacket like she’d just shrugged off the entire night. The fire from the dance was gone—expression calm again, like nothing had happened. Like Ekko hadn’t almost touched something still burning between them.

She pulled out her phone, swiped a few notifications. The glow lit her face in that soft, sharp way—like a cigarette in the dark. When she spoke, it was half to herself, half not.

“Well,” she muttered, “it’s late.”

Ekko blinked, still catching up. “Yeah. Probably should—”

“I should go,” she said, already turning.

“Yeah,” he echoed. “You probably should.”

The pause between them was short. But it held weight. Like they both knew that’s not what they meant.

Ekko opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Want me to call us an Uber? We’re not exactly sober.”

“No need.”

“You’re seriously driving?”

Jinx looked up with that dry, unreadable smirk. “I’ve driven with worse in my system.”

“You’ve had at least three—”

“Two and a half. I gave the third one to a potted plant. It looked like it needed it more.”

Ekko gave her a long, unimpressed look. “You’re reckless.”

“Always have been.” She smiled without teeth. “Missed that part?”

Another silence. Not cold—just loaded.

Then, offhandedly: “If it makes you feel better, I’ll drop you off first.”

Ekko blinked. “That’s not—”

“Take it or leave it, Little Man.” She was already moving. “Last chance before I leave you to Uber purgatory and awkward conversations with someone named Chuck in a Prius.”

He sighed, helpless. “Alright.”

“Good.” She tossed a glance over her shoulder. “Let’s go say goodbye to the emotionally available and the chronically thirsty.”

They slipped through the crowd—shoulders brushing, words unspoken.

The lights had mellowed. The bass had softened. Everyone looked a little blurrier now, like the party was exhaling.

At the front, Lux wrapped Jinx in a wine-warm hug. “You’re leaving? The party just got its slutty rhythm back.”

Ezreal reappeared behind her, flushed and smug. “Let’s all agree this exit is entirely because you two almost speed-ran your shared trauma arc when the lights cut.”

Jinx flipped him off with surgical precision, middle finger raised like a scalpel. “Shut up, Blondie.”

She said it lightly. Too lightly. Smile didn’t quite make it past her mouth.

Lux just laughed, pulling back. She shared a quiet, knowing look with Jinx—brief but unmistakable—then glanced at Ekko and gave him a soft smile. Not teasing. Just... knowing.

Ekko gave her a tight nod. Didn’t trust himself to say anything.

“Drive safe!” Lux sang, already tangling herself back into Ezreal’s arms like a romantic hangover.

Jinx led the way out, steps loose but quick. The air outside had that familiar Zaunic sting—smog, wet concrete, and fried synthmeat in the distance.

Her car was parked half a block down—wedged between a dented motorcycle and something that looked like a hover-scooter with commitment issues.

Of course it was the Zephyr.

Black, dented, barely legal. The left side had a long scratch that unintentionally resembled a lightning bolt—like the universe had tagged it as feral and left it alone.

“Still driving this thing?” Ekko asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

“It’s survived two shootouts, one explosion, and a breakup that ended with a wrench through the windshield,” Jinx replied, tossing her jacket into the back. “She’s loyal.”

The engine coughed awake like it had bronchitis, then settled into a low, menacing purr. A moment later, the speakers spat static and kicked into an old track she didn’t bother skipping.

They peeled off into the night.

Zaun buzzed around them—dirty neon, flickering signage, alley shadows that never really slept. The city didn’t rest. It just watched.

Inside the car, silence sat with them like a third passenger.

Ekko finally spoke, eyes out the window. “So. What’ve you been up to?”

Jinx shrugged with one hand on the wheel. “Freelance engineering shit. I build stuff. Break stuff. Sometimes get paid. Sometimes don’t.”

He smirked faintly. “Still a freelance for hire, huh?”

“It pays better than stability,” she said, glancing over. “And it’s less boring.”

“You ever think about slowing down? Doing something less… chaotic?”

She raised a brow. “Like what? Marketing? Pilates? Pretending I don’t fantasize about quitting a 9-to-5 every other Tuesday?”

Ekko gave her a flat look. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

She didn’t answer right away. Streetlights passed in streaks across her face. She drummed her fingers on the wheel. Then:

“Stability’s for people who’ve never had to pick shrapnel out of their memories,” she muttered. “It’s cute. Just not for me.”

Ekko looked at her then—really looked.

“People change,” he said, voice low.

Jinx didn’t look away. “Some things don’t.”

He nodded, slowly. Filed that one away somewhere deep.

A beat passed. Then another.

She tapped the phone mounted to her dash. “Put your address in. I’m using Waze unless you want me accidentally dumping you in a chem-rat alley.”

Ekko leaned in, typing with one hand. The screen glowed between them. "You really trust a GPS app with a deathwish like yours?"

“Course not. That’s why I make the app second-guess me.”

He huffed a laugh, but it faded as something out the window caught his eye.

They were idling at a red light near one of Zaun’s quieter arteries—between a shuttered arcade and a cracked pharmacy sign blinking like a dying firefly.

On the corner, barely lit, stood a girl.

Eight, maybe. Brown hair tangled, hoodie hanging off her frame like a wet rag. No shoes. Just standing there, hugging herself with rat-looking plush, staring at nothing.

Ekko’s throat went dry. His hand froze over the console.

Jinx noticed his stillness but didn’t follow his gaze. “What?” she asked, not unkind, just unreadable.

“Nothing,” he lied, shifting his eyes away. “Just thought I saw…”

He trailed off. Didn't finish.

The light turned green. The Zephyr rolled on.

A minute passed before either of them spoke.

“You still in touch with anyone else?” Ekko asked, tone casual, like the last few seconds hadn’t happened.

“Nope,” Jinx replied. Her voice clipped. Automatic. “Burned too many bridges. Some twice.”

“What about Vi—?”

“You still sucking up to Progress Man?” she cut in, fast. Not cruel. Just a practiced deflection with bite.

Ekko leaned his head back against the seat, eyes tracing the blurred skyline through the window. “Yeah. Jayce and I still throw wrenches at the city and hope something sticks.”

Jinx made a noise—halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “You always did have a hard-on for lost causes.”

They both looked at each other then.

Too long.

Too loaded.

“Still do,” Ekko said quietly.

The silence that followed didn’t feel empty.

It felt heavy.

Like old armor they both still wore.

She pulled up in front of his building.

The Zephyr idled like a growl.

Ekko hesitated. “Thanks. For the ride.”

Jinx unbuckled, popped the door open.

Ekko squinted. “Wait—you’re coming in?”

She looked at him like he was slow. “I need to piss. Unless you’d rather I water your front steps.”

She got out, slammed the door behind her like punctuation.

Ekko sat there a moment, staring through the windshield.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, dragging himself out after her.

She was already at the door.

“You still do whatever the hell you want, huh?” he asked, catching up.

She looked over her shoulder, smirk playing on her lips.

“Only when I’ve really gotta pee.”

They stumbled in, half-laughing, half-simmering, the apartment door slamming shut behind them like a final decision.

Jinx immediately kicked off her boots with a dramatic grunt. Her socks didn’t match—one striped, one black with a faded skull flipping the bird at the ankle.

Ekko clocked it. Said nothing. Just pointed.

“Bathroom’s down the hall. Second on the left. Floor dips halfway—watch your ankle unless you want a surprise sprain.”

She was already bolting. “Noted.”

He watched her disappear, then finally exhaled, pressing his palm to the door like it might steady something inside him. The place suddenly felt too quiet. Like the furniture didn’t know how to handle her energy.

He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering before finally typing:

[Ekko → Ezreal, 1:03 AM

She’s here. At the apartment. Said it was a “bathroom emergency”.

Ezreal’s reply hit instantly.

[Ezreal]

LMAO. Tell her the toilet lies. And for the love of God - don’t raw dog your trauma 😏

Ekko didn’t reply.

Another buzz lit up the screen. [Zeri]

HEYYY 😊

His jaw flexed. He locked the screen. Didn't answer.

Instead, he walked to the kitchen and flicked on the Bluetooth speaker, connecting it to his Spotify phone app. A low bass hum kicked in—followed by The Weeknd’s velvet voice.

🎵 I make you cry when I run away… 🎵

Ekko groaned under his breath. “Fuck off, Abel.”

He skipped it. Landed on something instrumental. Safe. Emotionally non-threatening.

Two sparkling Eska were grabbed from the fridge. He cracked one open, sipping slowly, and leaned on the counter, scrolling on his phone just as the toilet whooshed down the hall like it was trying to purge a bad decision.

Jinx returned, wiping her hands on her jacket, completely unbothered. Her eyes were sharp now—sober in the way only someone used to staying functional at half-drunk could be.

“That toilet flushes like it’s seen war.”

Ekko handed her the other can. “It has. It’s got PTSD.”

She popped it open, took a sip and looked around.

“Alright. I’ll admit it—this place doesn’t suck. Didn’t peg you for the clean and curated type.”

“It’s mostly Ezreal’s doing,” he said, pushing off the counter. “He thinks houseplants cure generational trauma.”

“Sounds like a startup pitch.”

“Probably is.”

She wandered further into the kitchen, taking it all in like she was casing the place. “So is this the part where you give me the tour or pretend you’re not nervous I’ll rifle through your drawers?”

He smirked. “Guess we’re doing the tour.”

She mock-bowed. “Lead the way, prince of gentrified Zaun.”

He started with the island.

“This is where Ezreal says he meal preps but mostly eats granola bars and checks himself out in the microwave reflection.”

Jinx tapped the granite like she was testing it for flaws.

“Damn. Fancy. “

He opened the fridge. “Real groceries. Real condiments. Sriracha, almond milk, questionable leftover curry. Don’t judge the olives.”

She peeked inside.

“No mold. No Tupperware fossils. Color me impressed.” 

“We grow up. Eventually.” 

“Please.” She scoffed. “I still eat cold noodles out of a pan at 2 a.m. Stability’s a scam.”

They moved to the living room. Clean lines, black sectional, mounted monitor glowing with idle screen burn. A stack of sketchbooks sat on the coffee table like they’d been used and abandoned in the same breath.

Jinx dropped onto the couch without permission. “Feels like a crash pad. But in a hot way.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should. I’ve lived in places that smelled like wet dogs and broken promises.”

She grabbed a sketchbook before he could stop her.

“You still draw?”

“Sometimes.”

She flipped through it. Abstract loops. Mechanical designs. Buildings drawn with a frantic hand, as if they were trying to escape themselves. And then—

A face.

Tucked between pages. Pencil lines softer than the rest. Half a face, really—one long side-bang hiding the eye. Braided ponytail. The expression walked the line between defiance and loneliness.

Jinx stilled.

For once, she didn’t joke. Didn’t smirk. She just stared.

Her voice, when it came, was low.

“You kept this?”

Ekko looked anywhere but her.

“Didn’t mean to.”

Then suddenly-

Fifteen again.

Powder—almost. Eyes colder. Wind in her coat.

“Wait,” he’d said. Reached for her arm.

The slap landed hard—jaw snapped, cheek lit up.

A sketch slipped from his pocket. Concrete caught it.

She bent. Picked it up.

Laughed.

“You still draw me?”

He’d tried to speak. Her name caught.

“Powder—”

She stepped close. Gripped his face. Not gentle. Not angry. Just surgical.

“She’s gone.” Breath hot. Eyes blank. “I’m Jinx now.”

Her thumb dragged across the cheek she’d marked—like she could smudge out whatever part of her he was still holding onto..

Then she let go. Dropped the sketch.

Walked away without looking back.

-

The memory faded like a bruise under ice. Ekko blinked, grounding himself.

Jinx closed the book gently. Set it back like it might shatter.

A beat passed. Then two.

He cleared his throat. “Come on. One more stop.”

He slid open the balcony door. Night air rushed in, cool and crisp, brushing their skin like a secret. She followed without a word.

Zaun stretched beneath them—bruised and burning, alive in neon and ash. Trains screeched below. Somewhere far off, someone was laughing like they’d just lost everything and didn’t care.

“Damn,” she whispered.

He leaned on the railing beside her. “I come out here to breathe. Or when Ezreal’s trying to seduce someone on the couch.”

“Tragic.”

She crossed her arms over the railing, shoulders softening. “You ever think about leaving?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Then I remember this city raised me and tried to kill me in the same breath. Feels rude to leave before I get the last word.”

She nodded. “Yeah… It’s fucked.”

Pause.

“But it’s yours. I get that.”

That hit.

Ekko looked at her sideways—something unspoken shifting behind his eyes. Her hair was tousled by the wind, and for a second she looked exactly like the sketch—part-wild, part-wounded.

He almost said something.

But silence settled again. This time, not awkward. Just full.

Neither one moved to break it.

They stood quietly on the balcony, the hum of Zaun buzzing beneath them like background static. The silence had turned comfortable—almost safe—until Jinx tilted her head, eyes still on the city, and murmured:

“So…”

She didn’t look at him. Just sipped her water. Swallowed the pause.

“Is the bedroom part of the tour, or are we pretending that’s still off-limits?”

Ekko’s pulse twitched. He hid it behind a dry shrug. “Didn’t think you’d be interested.”

Jinx didn’t blink. “Never said, I was.”

Then she turned and walked inside.

He followed, silent.

Down the hallway past Ezreal’s door—half-open, aggressively unmade, a shrine to poor decisions—and stopped in front of his own.

He hesitated. Just for a second. Then pushed it open.

Jinx slid in first, already scanning the space. It was clean. Ordered. Still alive with the scent of solder, oil, and too many sleepless nights.

Desk cluttered with sketches and tools. Bed half-made. A hoodie slung over the back of the chair.

Her eyebrow lifted. “This where the magic happens?”

He snorted. “If by magic you mean chronic insomnia and a rotating graveyard of failed prototypes... sure.”

Jinx wandered in like she owned it. Her gaze swept across the room and landed on the bed—but just for a second. Then drifted to the desk. She ran a finger along the edge and smirked, Eska can still loose in her grip.

“You’re tidier than I expected. Kinda disappointing.”

“I like being able to find shit,” he said, lifting his own can to his lips. “Helps when your life’s built out of other people’s wreckage.”

Jinx flopped onto the bed without warning. It bounced under her. She leaned back on one hand, legs crossed, setting her drink down on the nightstand with a quiet clink.

She patted the spot beside her. Light. Casual. Intentional.

Ekko raised a brow. “You always make yourself comfortable this fast?”

She met his stare. No smirk. “You always this jumpy around old friends?”

He didn’t answer. Just laughed once—quiet and low.

Then sat beside her. Careful. Not touching. But not far enough to matter.

His can dangled from one hand, forgotten. 

Silence filled the space again.

Her thigh brushed his.

He didn’t move.

She still smelled like lemon spray and smoke. Same scent she used to steal from corner stores when they were kids. Cheap. Familiar. A memory trying not to be one.

He glanced at her before setting his can down on the nightstand, next to hers. She looked back. Eyes steady. Waiting.

"So..." He trailed off, his hand inched toward hers—slow, hesitant, without performance.

Her fingers twitched.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

But something in her chest short-circuited—and he felt it. That sharp inhale that never quite made it back out.

Then she said it. Calm. Even.

“If you want, we can fuck.”

Ekko blinked. The words landed like a velvet-wrapped gut punch.

Jinx didn’t blink.

A beat.

“No feelings. No cuddles. No post-mortem in the morning.” Her voice was flat. “You get off, I get off, then we move on.”

“No strings attached, huh,” he said, dry.

She nodded, like they were finalizing a business deal.

“Yep. I don’t do messy.”

He searched her face—no teasing, no jokes. Just walls. Thick, fast, already sealed shut.

“Why now?” he asked, voice low. 

She shrugged. “Because I’m buzzed. Because you’re hot. Because I don’t want to think tonight.”

He exhaled, slow. Uncertain.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That sounds clean.”

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t touch her.

Didn’t smile.

Just stood there. Quiet. One beat too long.

Then softer—

“But what if we screw up…” He gestured between them. “This. Whatever’s left.”

Jinx scoffed, glancing away. “Don’t go soft on me now. You were doing fine.”

He almost smiled. Almost.

“So…” She dragged the word out, slow and dry, “are you in, or—?”

But then her gaze drifted—past him. Past the bed.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Ekko followed her eyes.

To the nightstand.

To the photo.

Three kids. Dirt-smudged. Sunlit. Frozen in a lie that used to be true.

Powder—wild-pigtailed and smug.

Vi—arms looped around them like a seatbelt with teeth.

And him—mid-laugh, grease-streaked, eyes half-closed like even he didn’t believe he was that happy.

Behind them: the busted soapbox car with BOOM BABY spray-painted in crooked pink.

Next to it, her Eska can sat beside his.

Jinx stilled.

Not tense. Just… gone. Like someone yanked her soul out through the back of her skull and left the lights on.

Her mouth twitched. Some thought trying to surface—and sinking fast.

Then—

“Sike.”

She snorted, standing up too fast. “God. Imagine thinking I was serious. You were really about to risk it all, huh?”

Ekko shot up, like she’d slapped the moment clean off his face. “Wait-What?”

She spun toward the hallway and waved him off like he was a pop-up ad. “Relax. I was messing with you. You looked all—” she mimicked his face, mock-broody, “—moody and tragic. I thought I’d lighten the mood.”

“That was a hell of a fake-out.”

“I’m committed to the bit.”

“Yeah?” His voice dipped low as he stepped toward her—not blocking her, just… there. “Because it didn’t feel like a bit.”

She turned her back. “I should go. Long drive.”

“Jinx.”

Nothing.

He stepped aside. Gave her room to run.

“You saw the photo.”

“Nope. Saw dust. Super riveting.”

“You’re lying.”

“Thanks for the psychoanalysis, Doctor Feelings.”

She moved to the door, all muscle memory. Swift. Clean. Like someone who’d practiced walkouts for years.

At the door, she bent to pull on her boots. Still calm. Still sharp.

He opened it for her.

She didn’t step through.

Not yet.

She stood there, hand on the frame, eyes locked on the hallway like it might offer her a reset button.

Then she turned.

Voice even. Face unreadable.

“That photo’s ancient. Doesn’t mean shit anymore.”

Ekko swallowed hard. “Bullshit.”

She froze.

Just for a second.

Then—

“Anyway… thanks for tonight,” she said, flat. “It was… whatever.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. It was.”

They stared too long.

Something flickered in her face—something almost soft.

But whatever it was, she crushed it. Stuffed it back in the drawer where her feelings went to rot.

With a two-fingered wave, she turned and disappeared into the hallway.

No slam. No drama.

Just absence.

Ekko stood there long after the door clicked shut.

The Bluetooth speaker kept looping some soft lo-fi track like the night hadn’t just gone nuclear.

It had.

His phone buzzed in his back pocket.

[Zeri]

u up??

He stared at the screen.

Then swiped it away.

Jinx’s absence clung to the air like smoke—silent, suffocating, impossible to ignore.

He muttered to the empty room, voice bitter:

“…What. The. Fuck.”

The apartment door clicked shut behind her.

Too soft. Too final. Like it meant something. Like it was making a goddamn point.

Jinx stood there in the hallway, frozen. Hand still gripping the knob like she might throw it open again and say something reckless.

Break something beautiful just to watch it splinter.

She didn’t.

She walked.

Down the stairs—three flights, boots hitting concrete in hard, angry thuds that echoed louder than they should’ve. The air outside hit her like a curse. Zaun always smelled like metal rot and old regret. Tonight, it just smelled like him.

Her Zephyr waited across the street like a coiled middle finger—black, brooding, all engine and attitude.

She got in and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the windshield.

Didn’t start the engine.

Didn’t move.

Just sat there, jaw clenched.

Breathing through her teeth.

Knuckles flexed around the wheel like it owed her blood.

The console pinged—some quiet mechanical whine. Or maybe memory. Or maybe just guilt.

She could still feel him.

Ekko.

Sitting across from her, everything too close.

The way his voice cracked when he said he didn’t want to screw up what was left of their already fractured friendship

The photo on his nightstand, burnt into her skull like an old injury.

-

Sunlight.

Laughter. Grease on their shirts. Wheels rattling over busted concrete.

Powder again

Eleven again—no scars, no ghosts. Just loud dreams and louder luck.

The soapbox car held together by spit and spite.

Benzo shouting—“Slow down, dammit!”

Vander, laughing from the curb— “Dumplings if you survive!”

“You’re gonna crash!”

“No we won’t—”

BOOM.

Screams. Metal. Dust.

Flying or falling—didn’t matter. Back then, it was the same thing.

A hand on her wrist.

Ekko’s. Warm. Steady. Real.

“You okay?”

“We should’ve added brakes.”

Vi grinning, blood on her teeth. “Brakes are for cowards.”

-

Jinx blinked hard. Shoved it down like everything else.

Memory filed. Heart locked. Smile gone.

She punched the dashboard.

Hard.

Pain bloomed.

Again.

Harder.

Skin split across her knuckles. The sting felt like control.

Her phone buzzed.

She yanked it out of her jacket like it had insulted her.

Text from Lux.

Another from "Don’t Answer" 🔪—Vi. Probably.

She almost threw the phone into the windshield. Didn’t.

Opened Notes instead.

Typed like she was coughing up shrapnel.

you see a ghost.

i see a corpse.

only one of us is still pretending.”

She stared at it.

Then deleted the whole thing.

Like always.

The screen went blank.

Somehow that felt louder than the silence.

She caught her reflection in the windshield—

wild hair, red cheeks, eyes too wide.

Her mouth twisted in something stuck between rage and regret.

She looked like her .

The one Vi named. The one Ekko tried to save.

The one everyone left behind.

The one Silco hardened.

The one who ruined everything she touched.

Jinx wiped her face with her wrist.

Didn’t know if it was sweat, tears, or almost-sex panic.

Didn’t care.

She turned the key.

The engine snarled to life like it hated her too.

Didn’t check the mirror.

Didn’t buckle up.

Just slammed her foot down like she wanted the world to chase her.

The Zephyr tore into the street, tires shrieking like something being dragged to hell.

She ran a red.

Then another.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Let the music scream for her—fast, violent, synth-heavy.

A soundtrack with a black eye and a vengeance kink.

She wasn’t driving.

She was trying to disappear.

From what?

From Ekko? From the past? From the version of herself she almost became tonight?

Didn’t matter.

She needed out.

The Zephyr hit a straightaway and she floored it.

The city blurred into electric smears. Nothing felt real.

And then—

Movement.

Sudden. Close.

Her body reacted before her brain did.

She slammed the brake.

Yanked the wheel hard.

The tires screamed. Metal groaned. She skidded, chest crushed against the seatbelt, one tire popping up onto the curb before thudding back down.

Steam hissed. Her pulse thundered.

Her hands were still locked on the wheel like it was the only thing anchoring her.

She looked up.

And there—

Standing dead center in the headlights—

A brown-haired girl.

Small. Eight, maybe nine. Barefoot.

Dark green hoodie swallowing her frame. Skinny legs, bony arms.

Just standing there.

Not crying. Not flinching.

Just… staring.

Chapter Text

Jinx stumbled out of the car like her limbs didn’t belong to her anymore.

“Hey—hey! What the fuck are you doing? You tryna get flattened, or is this, like, your idea of hunting the fuckin’ road?”

The girl didn’t react.

Didn’t run.

Didn’t speak.

Just stared.

Wide, unreadable eyes. Hair matted, face dirty, too quiet.

Jinx slowed. Took her in.

No cuts. No blood. No shoes.

Just a silence that felt ancient.

There was something in her hands. A plush. Shaped like a rat—stitched together from scraps, seams ragged, one ear barely hanging on.

Jinx stopped walking.

Her throat got tight.

She didn’t know why.

Just… something about it. The way the stuffing peeked out like a wound. The way the girl clutched it like it was oxygen.

Like something Powder would’ve sewn out of wire and fabric scraps when no one was looking.

When she still thought broken things were worth saving.

“You deaf, kid?” Jinx asked, softer now.

The girl blinked.

Didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Jinx tilted her head. Looked again.

That glassy stare. That posture—like every muscle was braced for the worst.

She knew that stance. She’d been that stance.

Back when the world ended and nobody told her. When she stood in a workshop full of smoke and ash and ghosts.

Jinx exhaled hard. Dragged a hand down her face—smearing a slow trail of blood across her cheek without realizing.

“Shit.”

The girl didn’t move.

Didn’t ask for help.

Didn’t act like she wanted any.

Jinx laughed once. Short. Ugly.

“Alright,” she said finally, voice dry. “You win, kid. You’ve officially freaked me the fuck out.”

Still nothing.

Jinx sighed.

Ran both her bloody hands through her hair. She was shaking again, and this time she couldn’t blame Ekko or the past or her fucking hormones.

Just the look on this kid’s face.

Blank. Tired. Gone .

Like a ghost that hadn’t realized it died yet.

Jinx backed off.

Turned toward her car.

She made it four steps before she heard it.

Not words. Not crying.

Just breath. Close. Quick.

She turned.

The girl was following her.

Not fast.

Just there.

Jinx stared.

“Don’t.”

The girl stopped.

Looked at her. No expression.

Just that same awful stillness.

Jinx’s mouth twisted. She pointed a finger like a weapon.

“Don’t follow me. Don’t make me feel something. Don’t you fucking dare .”

Nothing.

Then—slow, like the world's quietest betrayal—the girl stepped forward.

One foot.

Then another.

Jinx felt her stomach drop.

Her breath caught.

She looked around. Empty street. No cars. No footsteps.

Nobody coming for her.

Jinx swallowed thickly. Checked the street again. Empty.

“Where the hell are your parents?” she asked, softer now.

The girl just blinked.

Jinx rubbed the heel of her palm against her temple.

She was not a kid person. She was barely a her person.

Jinx huffed. Glanced at the Zephyr. Back at the girl.

“Well, shit. Guess tonight’s the night I’m collecting cryptic feral children.”

She opened the Zephyr’s passenger door and left it hanging with a sigh and a mutter.

“Hop in, or don’t. Your call, kid. I got room for one more bad decision.”

She walked back to the driver’s side and slumped into her seat. Head thunked against the wheel.

Silence.

Then—

Click.

Passenger door shut.

Jinx looked over.

The girl sat there, silent as bone. Still holding her plush. Still staring.

Seatbelt dangling. No words. No expression. Just there.

Jinx narrowed her eyes. “You mute?”

The girl blinked once. No nod. No shrug.

Jinx exhaled and shoved the hair out of her face—then winced. Her palm stung. Wet.

She looked down. Blood smeared across her fingers, dried in the creases. Knuckles torn open from earlier—when she’d decked the dashboard instead of screaming.

“Fuckin’ hell,” she muttered.

Pulled open the glove box. Nothing useful. Just napkins, receipts, a flare gun.
She yanked a handful of gas station napkins and started blotting the worst of it.

The kid watched her. Still no expression. Just… taking it in.

Jinx caught the look. Scowled. “Don’t get used to this, alright? I’m not a role model. I’m barely functional.”

She wadded the bloody napkins into a loose ball and stuffed it into the cupholder.
Then buckled in.

Started the car again—quieter this time.

The Zephyr rolled forward like it was holding its breath.

No music. No headlights.

Just the sound of old city breath and rubber on wet asphalt.

Jinx didn’t talk. Not really.

She just gripped the wheel and drove.

But in the corner of her eye, that kid stared.

Not scared. Not grateful.

Just like a mirror she wasn’t ready to look in.

The Zephyr rolled down the avenue in silence.

Not like the quiet before a storm. More like the quiet after someone’s yelled themselves hoarse.

Jinx kept one hand on the wheel, the other pressed to her thigh, tapping out a rhythm she didn’t know the beat to. The kid hadn’t moved. Still clutched the rat-plush like it was a spine. Jinx risked a side glance.

Still no seatbelt. Still no sound. Still watching.

It was getting unnerving.

“…You hungry?” she asked finally, not really expecting a response.

The girl didn’t answer. Just blinked slowly like that was the stupidest question in the world.

Jinx snorted. “Right. Dumb question. Starving’s the Zaunite baseline.”

A few turns later, the fluorescent arches of a McDee's cut through the gloom like divine disappointment. Jinx veered into the drive-thru, tires crunching over loose gravel. The speaker crackled like a smoker's throat.

“—Welcome to McDonald’s. Can I take your order?”

Jinx rolled her eyes. “Yeah, gimme… uh…” She glanced at the kid, then back at the menu. “One McFeral Child Combo, heavy on the salt and abandonment issues.”

Silence from the speaker.

“…Ma’am?”

“Chicken nuggets. Fries. Apple slices if that’s still a thing. Chocolate milk. And two of those stupid cookies shaped like gears.”

More silence. Then: “Would you like to make that a Happy Meal?”

Jinx laughed under her breath. “Oh, buddy. That ship’s sailed.”

She paid in crumpled cash, grabbed the bag with fingers still streaked in half-dried blood, and tossed it into the girl’s lap without ceremony.

The kid blinked down at it. No thanks. No sound. Just tore open the box and started eating like she hadn’t tasted real food in days.

Jinx pulled into a gas station lot across the street. Killed the engine. Cracked her knuckles. Lit a cigarette she didn’t remember buying.

Watched the girl devour a nugget like it owed her rent.

“You know, you’re lucky you’re cute,” she muttered. “If you’d been some mouthy little gremlin, I’d have left you to play chicken with traffic.”

Still no response.

But the cookie packet was gone. Both of them.

“…Unreal.”

Twenty minutes and two missed turns later, Jinx coasted to a stop outside a squat gray building wedged between a condemned hardware store and a graffiti-tagged med clinic.

The sign out front was barely lit: SafeStep Shelter: Emergency Housing & Youth Support

The building looked tired. Like it had seen too much and expected worse tomorrow.

Jinx sighed and glanced at the kid. “Alright, trauma rat. End of the line.”

The girl didn’t move. Just stared.

“…Get out. Go. This is where the real adults take over.”

Still nothing.

Jinx groaned, unbuckled, and stepped out. Walked around to yank open the passenger door.

The girl slid out slowly. Still barefoot. Fry in one hand, plague-rat plush in the other. Dirt-smudged feet hit the pavement like they didn’t feel a damn thing.

Jinx followed her up the walkway and rang the buzzer.

A heavy buzz. Click. Door unlocked.

Inside, the air was warm and dry—too clean, like it had something to prove.

Reception looked like a time capsule from the year her parents died. Flickering fluorescents. A grief poster with cartoon hands holding hearts. Coffee machine that looked one surge away from combustion.

A woman in her forties looked up from behind the desk. Short curls. Clipboard. Tired eyes.

“Hi there—how can I help you?”

Jinx scratched the back of her neck. “Found this one wandering the street. Nearly ran her over.”

The woman stood fast, eyes wide. “Oh my god. Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. Doesn’t talk. Clings to a rat looking thingy made of socks.”

The woman crouched down to the girl’s level. “Sweetheart, can you tell me your name?”

No answer.

“Can you nod if you understand me?”

Still nothing.

She looked up at Jinx. “Mute?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is: no shoes, no ID, no adult in sight. She hasn’t said a word.”

The woman straightened, already in protocol mode. “Okay. Since she’s a minor found without a guardian, we can take her in under a temporary protective hold—up to seventy-two hours. But we’ll need to notify Child Protective Services immediately.”

Jinx tensed. “Whoa. Let’s not escalate. I just didn’t want to leave her on the street.”

“I understand. But we’re mandated reporters. It’s not optional.”

Jinx winced. “Yeah, yeah. Fine. Do what you gotta do.”

The woman nodded. “Do you know her name? Age? Anything?”

“Nothing. She either doesn’t talk or doesn’t trust anyone enough to try.”

“We’ll still need some information—for contact purposes. In case her caseworker needs follow-up.”

Jinx grumbled. “You people are persistent.”

“It’s policy.”

Clipboard. Pen. Paper shoved her way.

Jinx stared down at it like it might explode. Muttered, “Knew I should’ve just kept driving.”

Full Legal Name:

She sighed. “Fine. Fuck.” Powder Fortune

Phone Number:

She hesitated, then scribbled her main number.

Emergency Contact:

She hesitated for a beat before reflex took over.

Ekko Talis — and his number.

Relationship to Child:

A beat. Then:

Driver who almost ran over a feral maybe-catatonic kid before becoming a samaritan

The woman read it with a face like she’d seen worse, but not by much.

“Do you intend to follow up on her status?”

Jinx looked over her shoulder.

The girl was perched in one of the plastic chairs, picking cookie crumbs out of the plague-rat’s stitched belly.

Something in her chest pulled tight.

“Not unless I absolutely fucking have to.”

The woman gave a neutral smile. “We’ll call if there’s an update.”

“Super.”

Jinx stayed there another second. Like she’d forgotten how doors worked.

Then turned to leave.

At the threshold, she looked back.

The girl had finally looked up. Watching her again. Same expression.

Not fear. Not hope. Just quiet.

Like maybe she knew this wasn’t goodbye. Not really.

Jinx cleared her throat. “If the rat-plush starts talking to you, don’t tell anyone. They’ll lock you up.”

And she walked out.

The Airbnb apartment felt too quiet when she unlocked the door. Too sterile. Like it didn’t know how to contain her.

The door shut behind her with the kind of finality that felt fake. Like if she turned around fast enough, the ghost would still be there.

She didn’t.

She kicked off her boots halfway through the living room, peeled off her jacket, stripped off her dress by the fridge, and left her remaining clothes littered in the hall. 

The apartment was too clean. Too minimalist. The kind of place where nothing bad had ever happened, which made it completely unbearable.

The shower hit her like a slap.

Too cold. Too clean.

Jinx leaned into the tile, let the water sting her still-raw knuckles—half-cleaned, crusted, useless—and scrubbed until her skin burned, like she could erase the kid’s eyes, Ekko’s hands, and the way both of them saw her too clearly.

The mirror fogged up.

Good. She didn’t want to see what kind of mess was looking back. She dried off in silence, hair curling like wild things around her face.

She dropped onto the couch half-naked, half-dead. Towel barely hanging on. Didn’t care. She reached for the whiskey she’d left earlier and took a long drag straight from the bottle.

No burn. No comfort.

She lit a cigarette she didn’t want.

The smoke curled up past her lashes as her phone buzzed once on the table.

[Lux 💖]

BITCH. Did u bang him or not? lmk 🫠

Jinx stared at the screen. Said nothing.

Didn’t text back. Didn’t even type.

Just set the phone face-down like it was looking at her too loud.

Then laid back.

Staring at the ceiling like maybe it had answers.

But all she saw was that girl.

Barefoot. Blank. Clutching a rat plush like it was armor.

The way she stood in the middle of the street, daring the car to hit her.

The way she looked at Jinx—like she knew her.

And maybe she did.

And then Ekko’s face crept in, because of course it did. Sitting too close on that bed, hand inching toward hers like it meant something.

The sound of her own voice, way too calm: “If you want, we can fuck.”

The photo on his nightstand—three kids who didn’t know any better.

God.

What the hell was she thinking?

She groaned and rolled over, face first into the throw pillow like she could smother the whole night and the two before it.

“Fuuuuuuck,” she muttered into the fabric.

It had been two days since Jinx walked out.

Long enough to lie to himself. Not long enough to believe it.

Ekko’s phone buzzed against the nightstand like it was trying to claw its way into his dreams.

He groaned, rolled over, and blinked blearily at the screen.

[Jayce, 07:47 AM]

“Need you in the office today. Rescheduled a big client meeting to accommodate your WFH hermit act. It’s the Noxian account. 12PM sharp.”

He dropped the phone onto his chest and stared at the ceiling.

Beside him, on the nightstand—two half-empty Eska cans. Still sitting there.

One of them was lip-smudged.

She hadn’t even finished the damn thing.

Ekko stared at it like it might blink.

Then he looked away.

She always left things behind like that—half-drunk, half-built, half-finished—and somehow they still took up more space than they should’ve.

He exhaled through his nose. Not quite a sigh. Just enough to feel like movement.

So much for another day of fake productivity and real avoidance.

He rolled out of bed, cracked his neck, and muttered, “Fine. Back to the circus.”

He got to the office early.

Bad habit.

Two weeks of working from home hadn’t made walking back into Piltover’s polished halls any less surreal. The lobby’s synth-marble floor still gleamed like it was allergic to actual dirt. The security drone chirped at him as he badged in—cheerful as hell for something with no concept of burnout.

Ekko adjusted the collar of his navy work jacket—waxed canvas, half-wrinkled, probably older than half the interns here. Underneath: charcoal henley, rolled sleeves, visible ink curling up one forearm.

His locs—neatly pulled into a mid-ponytail, clean part lines still sharp despite the humidity. A practical choice, but precise.

His pants were technical-casual—black, tapered, zip-pocketed—like he might need to fix a prototype or outrun a fire alarm. No tie. No performative polish. Just steel-toe boots scuffed at the toes, a minimalist wristwatch, and the kind of posture that said: Yes, I’m here. No, I’m not in the mood.

Half Piltover, half Zaun. Just enough polish to pass. Just enough edge to make people wonder if he’d bite.

HexTech Dynamics' lobby was glass and chrome—industrial elegance and capitalist denial dressed up as innovation. Someone had cranked the thermostat to tech-bro arctic again.

Ekko rubbed the chill from his fingers and crossed the lobby. Pressed the elevator button. Waited.

When it arrived, he stepped in and leaned against the mirrored wall, thumb hovering over the lab floor button while the elevator’s tinny jazz tried to lobotomize him.

The doors slid shut. He stared at his reflection while the elevator hummed its way up—just long enough for his brain to remind him that two weeks of isolation hadn’t been enough to deal with people.

Ding.

The doors opened to a gust of recycled cold. He stepped into the corridor, the elevator sealing behind him like a vault.

And nearly walked straight into Claggor.

Tablet under one arm, jaw set like a slammed door. He caught sight of Ekko and stalled. The hallway lost pressure.

“Morning,” Claggor said, voice stiff enough to snap.

Ekko gave a nod. “Claggor.”

They passed each other like trains switching tracks—just enough clearance not to crash.

Then Jayce’s voice cut through the frost.

“I’m just saying—if you’re going to host a brunch, there should be a bar. With a real bartender. And maybe a couple food trucks. Nothing crazy.”

“You’re not planning my engagement brunch,” Caitlyn replied, amused, not even looking up from her espresso. “You turn everything into a launch party.”

“It’s called ambiance,” Jayce muttered, defensive.

“It’s called you once tried to hire a DJ for a memorial service.”

They were standing near the espresso machine—Caitlyn, likely just passing through on her way to whatever cop-slash-detective thing she did before noon, looking criminally sharp in a slate blazer that probably cost more than Ekko’s rent. Jayce stood next to her in business-casual chaos, his tie already halfway off.

Jayce then threw his hands up. “That was one time—”

But Caitlyn had already clocked him.

“There he is,” she said, cutting Jayce off with a nod toward the hallway. “My second-favorite Zaunite.”

Ekko stepped fully into view, raising an eyebrow. “Damn. Didn’t realize we were roasting people this early.”

“It’s not a roast,” she said smoothly, sipping her coffee. “You haven’t earned that kind of affection yet.”

Ekko stifled a laugh, offering her a fist-bump instead of words. Caitlyn tapped her knuckles lightly against his, unbothered.

Jayce straightened up, clapped Ekko on the shoulder. “Thanks for coming in. I know I moved things around.”

“You mean the part where I was supposed to work from home and you stomped on it with your boot of capitalism?”

Jayce grinned. “That part, yes.”

Ekko turned to Caitlyn, more relaxed now. “You drinking jet fuel again?”

She raised her cup in mock toast. “Black as my patience.”

Ekko huffed a faint laugh.

Caitlyn had been around almost as long as Jayce—ever since Jayce’s mom, Ximena Talis, took him in at twelve. Back when living in Piltover still felt like a detour, not a reset.

She was one of the few who could talk shit to him without catching shrapnel.

No performance. No fluff. Just sharp edges and old loyalty.

Jayce then said, “By the way-we were just talking about the engagement brunch. You’re coming, right?”

Caitlyn shot him a teasing look. “Vi will personally drag you in by the hair if you bail, just so you know.”

Ekko chuckled under his breath. “Noted. Got the passive-aggressive calendar invite and everything.”

“Good. I’ll let you two get back to it,” Caitlyn smiled at them before grabbing her coffee.“And I’ll let Vi know you’re alive, Ekko.”

She patted Ekko’s shoulder, subtle and familiar, before stepping out—heels clicking against tile like punctuation.

Once she was gone, Jayce let out a breath. “Okay. Back to work. Medarda meeting’s in ten. I had to rearrange the whole damn calendar to work around your two-week hermit stint.”

“Appreciate it,” Ekko muttered.

Jayce clapped him on the back as they headed down the hall. “Just don’t make me regret it.”

Ten minutes later, Ekko was in the lab, half-zoned and half-skimming the latest proposal briefing—already regretting being vertical.

The hum of HexTech systems whirred in the background, sterile and familiar. Same lights. Same desk. Same shit.

Someone cleared their throat behind him—awkward, like they regretted making noise at all.

Claggor.

Great.

Ekko didn’t look up. 

Claggor looked like he wanted to say something. Then didn’t.

Ekko didn’t help him. Just raised an eyebrow and waited.

The silence was heavy, and it was going downhill fast—until Jayce swung open the door like he was announcing a product launch. “Everyone—come meet the clients.”

Behind him came Viktor—limping slightly, tablet in hand, scanning through specs with surgical precision. Always two steps ahead but never in a rush. Ekko had missed seeing him around Zaun more, but Viktor only dropped in for meetings worth his time.

And behind both of them: two women who looked like they owned whatever they were standing in.

The first: a tall woman with an eyepatch, military bearing, and a predator’s calm. The second: younger, sharper, wearing a dress that probably cost more than Ekko’s entire apartment. Mel Medarda. And—holy shit—their body language screamed related.

Jayce cleared his throat. “This is Ambessa and Mel Medarda. They’re here on behalf of the Noxian board. We’re discussing a long-term sustainable tech collaboration.”

The entire room shifted. Every engineer suddenly remembered how to stand straight.

Jayce turned to Ekko like nothing had happened. “This is Ekko. Engineer, team lead, visionary, and one of our best design leads. You’ll be working with him closely.”

Ekko nodded, keeping his expression neutral.

Ambessa sized him up like she was assessing structural integrity.

“You look young,” she said flatly.

“I get that a lot,” Ekko replied, meeting her gaze head-on.

Her eyes narrowed—just a flicker of something like amusement. Maybe.

Mel extended a hand, eyes sharp. “We’ve heard promising things.”

Ekko shook it, keeping his face unreadable. “Let’s hope I don’t disappoint.”

Ambessa smiled, just barely. “Noxus values performance over promises.”

Jayce cleared his throat, ushering them toward the conference room. “We’ve got projections ready. Walk with me.”

As they moved out of earshot, Viktor leaned toward Ekko and muttered, “Don’t let Jayce talk himself into another tattoo metaphor. He almost lost the Piltovian rail deal over one.”

Ekko smirked. “Noted.”

Jayce then launched into pitch mode, herding everyone toward the conference display, but Ekko’s brain was only half-present. 

He recognized the gleam in Ambessa’s eye—power disguised as diplomacy. Mel spoke in suggestions that felt like orders. Every word said “client,” but every pause said “leverage.”

And then the Medardas moved on—touring the lab with Viktor, their voices fading down the corridor.

Ekko exhaled and dropped into his chair.

Jayce lingered behind.

“Hey,” he said, voice lowered. “You good?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. But sure.” Jayce glanced at the door, then back. “Look… I don’t know what’s going on with you—and I’m not asking. But if this thing with Zeri messed you up—”

Ekko’s jaw twitched. “It’s not about that.”

Jayce raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. “Alright. Fine. Just... don’t shut everybody out, okay? You’ve got more going for you than you let yourself admit.”

Ekko rolled his eyes. “That your version of a pep talk?”

“Half pep, half unsolicited therapy.” Jayce smirked, leaning in. “Here’s the trick, kid: everyone’s messy. You just gotta find the kind of mess that makes you laugh more than it makes you tired.”

Ekko almost cracked a smile—almost.

His mind flicked back to two nights ago.

“But what if we screw up… ” He’d gestured between them. “This. Whatever’s left.”

Jinx had scoffed, eyes sliding away. “Don’t go soft on me now. You were doing fine.”

He’d nearly smiled.

“So…” She’d dragged the word out, slow and dry. “You in, or—?”

Ekko exhaled—somewhere between a scoff and a real laugh.

Jayce clapped him on the shoulder. “Viktor and I are interviewing candidates later—for the Noxus project. Should have someone assigned to work with you directly by next week.”

“Great.”

“C’mon. You’ll love it,” Jayce said, already halfway out the door. “Maybe they’ll even make you less grumpy.”

Ekko snorted as the door clicked shut behind him.

He pulled out his phone, half-expecting it to combust. Two new texts blinked on screen.

[Ezreal, 12:47 PM]

holy shit, you left the apartment during daylight

btw grab some eggs, bacon on the way back

Ekko smirked, scrolling.

[Vi]

Heard you finally went back to the office. Proud of you, sunshine.

Also-kinda miss your moody ass.

Grab a drink with me this week, yeah? Or I’ll just tackle you at brunch.

He was about to reply but then his thumb froze.

1 missed call. 1 new voicemail.

No name attached.

His chest tightened. Just for a second, stupid hope pricked at the edge of his thoughts.

Could it be her?

He hated that his brain still asked the question.

He tapped the screen. Brought the phone to his ear.

The lab buzzed around him—low, cold, familiar. But the voicemail cut through it like static.

A woman’s voice. Calm. Unfamiliar.

"She left a girl here two days ago, and… well, she listed you as her emergency contact.”

Ekko blinked.

Shit.

“…Yeah. Of course she did.” he muttered.

Elsewhere in Zaun—

No breakdowns. No stray children bleeding into her dreams.

Just blackout curtains, bad whiskey, and enough lipstick to repaint her own denial.

Today, she had a job interview. Something adult. Something mechanical.

Something not Ekko.

But first—retail therapy. Or at least, the shady kind.

The heels came first. Expensive. Pointed. Murderously impractical. She’d found them in a clearance bin three years ago and decided they made her look like the kind of woman who threw a martini in your face and then invoiced you for dry cleaning.

She strode through the gleaming marble of the Zaun-Piltover Nexus Mall like she owned the place. Hair twisted into a sleek knot at the back—tight, deliberate, ruthless. But that side fringe refused to behave, slicing across her right eye. Trench coat the color of expensive regret—camel, belted, tailored. Underneath, a fitted black dress—clean, simple, and impossible to read. Sunglasses perched like a crown. And the lipstick—deep enough to drown in. Burgundy bled into black, glossy with spite.

She looked rich. Dangerous. Litigiously unapproachable.

Nobody blinked when she walked into Tom Ford Beauty —a boutique that smelled like generational wealth and women who thought cardio was peasant behavior.
White walls. Glass shelves. Perfumes arranged like holy relics.

One bottle read Fucking Fabulous – 950 dollars.

Jinx squinted like it had personally insulted her.

She moved fast. One perfume. Three lipsticks— Bruised Plum , Velvet Cherry , Night Mauve. All sealed. All under her arm like party favors at a funeral.

She hit the counter like a socialite with a vendetta.

The cashier—blonde, probably seventeen, lashes like weaponized tarantulas—looked up from a tablet.

Jinx set the boxes down like she was defusing a bomb. “Hi. Need to return these.”

The cashier blinked. “Do you have a receipt?”

Jinx gasped, hand to chest. “God, no. Must’ve left it in my other designer handbag. Ugh. So me.”

“Without a receipt, we can’t—”

“They’re sealed,” she sang. “Factory-fresh. Untouched.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am—”

“ Ma’am? ” Jinx narrowed her eyes. “You trying to get cursed, sweetheart?”

The girl froze. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“Relax.” Jinx waved a hand, benevolent and clearly lying. “It’s fine. It’s just… I bought these last week.”

“Do you have the credit card you used for the transaction?”

Jinx tilted her head, slow as a knife. “This is ridiculous.”

“I—uh—Client Services might be able to—”

Jinx sighed, long and theatrical. “Fine. I’ll keep them. Jesus. Can I at least get a bag so I don’t look like a psychopath juggling high-end lipsticks through the mall?”

The girl hesitated. “I… sure.” She handed over one of those shiny boutique bags with the pretentious silver rope handles.

Jinx slid the boxes inside like she was tucking in a child. Smiled with her teeth.

“You’ve been super helpful, Katy.”

The girl blinked. “It’s… Mary.”

Jinx winked. “Sure it is.”

She pivoted and walked out like someone leaving rehab for the third time—graceful, determined, unbothered by laws.

Outside the boutique, sunlight filtered through the mall’s atrium like judgment, she paused. Bag crinkled in her grip—clean, crisp, victorious.

"God bless retail," she muttered.

Jinx then pulled out a cigarette from her coat pocket, and lit it with the engraved lighter Sarah had given her last year.

Breathe fire, not apologies.

She took one drag. Coughed like it owed her rent. Flicked the cigarette into a fake succulent planter.

“Gross. Why do I even—” She stopped. Habit. Just another ghost muscle flexing out of impulse.

She headed toward the escalators. Her reflection caught her in the glass.

The makeup was perfect. The coat hung just right. Lipstick still intact. But the girl in the reflection looked like she was halfway through a bluff and out of chips.

Her phone buzzed.

[Sarah 💋, 1:17 PM]

Update?

She ignored it. Unlocked the screen.

Saw the other stuff too—

1 missed call. 1 new voicemail.

No name attached. Just a number she didn’t recognize.

She swiped it away like lint. Opened Instagram instead.

Scrolled past rooftop cocktails and Pilates captions pretending to be spiritual.

[Lux 💖]

babe if you ghost me for one more day I will literally fake my own death😤

Buzz again.

[Lux 💖]

also?? what the HELL happened with you and Ekko 👀 I need the tea, the transcript, and the deleted scenes rn

Jinx stared. Said nothing.

She opened the thread from Ekko instead.

An eight years old message.

[Boy Savior🔧, 10:47 PM, May 5th 2017]

haven’t heard from you in a while… hope you’re good

Still sitting. Like a thorn. She hadn’t responded. Hadn’t deleted it either.

She stared.

Thumb hovered over the reply bubble.

Paused.

Moved to the call icon. Paused again.

Didn’t press it.

Didn’t move either.

Then—

…[Ekko is typing]

Her breath caught. Spine went stiff. Not enough to admit it out loud. But enough.

The bubble blinked.

Then disappeared.

No message.

Of course.

She shoved the phone deep into her purse and leaned both palms against the glass. Stared through her own reflection like maybe it would blink first.

Then—

“Powder?”

She froze.

That voice. Familiar. Careful. Like someone poking a wolf with a stick.

She turned.

Vi.

Shoulder-length pink hair. Hoodie. Jeans. Bag from a jewelry shop dangling from one hand like it might explode. She looked the same. And not.

Older. Softer. Sadder.

She raised a hand. Small wave

Jinx’s first instinct was to bolt. Or throw something.

But then—

That voice. That face. That name.

Powder.

Her gut flinched like it always did.

And just beneath her skin, the memories surfaced—not loud, just sharp.

Not distant. Just waiting.

-

Vi’s hand had cracked across her face, sixteen years ago—

“You’re a jinx, Powder! You ruin everything!”

Then—thirteen years ago—

Rain. Vi standing outside the old hideout, soaked and shaking.

“I didn’t mean it,” she’d said. “I was angry. Please, let me fix it.”

Too late.

-

Jinx blinked. The mall snapped back into place.

Vi was still standing there. Small wave. Cautious smile.

Same sister. Different ghosts.

And Jinx… waved back.

Crooked. Reluctant.

Vi smiled. Barely.

Then stepped in and hugged her.

No ask. No warning. Just warmth—sharp and sudden. The kind that cracked through Jinx’s ribs like a pry bar.

One second too long.

Jinx slipped the armor back on before it could leave a scar.

“You wear those in public?” Vi muttered, stepping back and eyeing the heels. “Closet full of trauma and nothing to wear?”

Jinx snorted. “You look like you lost a fight with a laundry basket.”

“Still got that mouth, huh?”

“And you still look like you block punches with your face.”

A beat. Not long. But deep.

Vi’s gaze flicked to the boutique bag. “Shopping spree?”

“Return attempt,” Jinx said flatly. “Didn’t take.”

Vi huffed a laugh. “Yeah. That tracks.”

They stood there, caught between a kid’s play area and an overpriced watch kiosk—neutral ground in the no-man’s land of memory.

Vi shoved a strand of hair out of her eye. “Eight years… what brings you back to town?”

Jinx tilted her head. “Work stuff.”

“The legal kind?” Vi asked, eyeing the bag handle. “Or the kind that gets you in trouble?”

Jinx smirked. “The kind that gets me a fat paycheck.”

“Right,” Vi muttered, rubbing the back of her neck like she wished she could scrub the words off it. “So. I’ve got this… thing. Sunday. Brunch. Eleven sharp. Not a cult. Just an engagement party. With mimosas. You know. Grown-up shit.”

Jinx blinked. “Wait. You’re engaged?”

“…Yeah,” Vi deadpanned.

“…To that cop who looks like Mom?”

“No, to a toaster oven. Yes, to Caitlyn.”

“…So brunch. For your engagement. With Caitlyn Kiramman.”

“Yup. Don’t judge. She promised mimosas, food, pool, good vibes.”

A beat.

Jinx tilted her head. “The Piltvie Princess herself, huh?”

Vi grinned. “That's right.”

A pause. Then, quieter, but still Jinx:

“…Congrats, by the way.”

Vi blinked. Like she hadn’t expected that to land.

Jinx rolled her eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

Vi smirked. “Wouldn’t dare.”

“And you want me there?”

“You’re my sister. Comes with the territory.”

Jinx hesitated. “Text me the details.”

“I did. Three weeks ago. You left me on read.”

“Right. That wasn’t on purpose. I’ve just been… busy. Emotionally avoiding accountability.”

Vi smiled. “At least you’re self-aware.”

“Counts for something, right?”

Vi didn’t answer. Just looked at her. Longer than she liked.

Jinx glanced at the time. “Shit. Gotta run. Big job meeting. Grown-up stuff. Wires, welds, probably mild arson.”

Vi nodded. “Sure.”

Jinx turned and walked. Heels clicking like punctuation.

Didn’t look back.

The HexTech Dynamics Zaun office didn’t look like it belonged in the Undercity.

It looked like it had been stolen from Piltover, scrubbed sterile, and dropped like a dare into the industrial chaos of Sector Seven. Chrome desk. Glass walls. Minimalist furniture that practically whispered we don’t pay you to sit.

Jinx sat anyway. Dropped the boutique bag at her feet.

Legs crossed. Heels up. Coat draped over the chair like a murder confession. Her résumé—four bullet points and three lies—sat untouched on the tablet at the center of the desk.

Across from her, Viktor didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Just stared, like he was trying to reverse-engineer her DNA with his mind.

He was lean, pale, almost gaunt—in that “probably forgets to eat unless reminded” way. Tailored wool. Prosthetic leg that clicked like a metronome every time he shifted. Accent: Zaunite, but clean. Hair slicked back like he didn’t have time to be messy.

He was one of Zaun’s last real innovators. Probably the only engineer in either city who could outpace her when sleep-deprived.

His engineering partner, unfortunately, was Jayce Talis.

Jayce looked like he’d just come from a GQ -sponsored TED Talk. Tailored blazer. Five o’clock shadow too symmetrical to be accidental. And that smile—half charm, half ego, all expensive.

He studied her with a pinched brow, like he couldn’t decide if he was curious or annoyed.

“You’re early,” he said.

Jinx raised an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all,” Viktor said, finally speaking. His voice was cool, deliberate. “I like punctual people. They tend to respect entropy.”

She squinted. “Is that a compliment, or just weird scientist flirting?”

“Neither,” he said. “Although I’ve been accused of worse.”

Jayce leaned in slightly, squinting. “You look... familiar.”

“Yeah,” Jinx muttered. “I get that a lot.”

“No, I swear I’ve seen you before. Piltover, maybe. Years ago. A gallery? Robotics expo?”

“I don’t do expos.”

Jayce didn’t push it. But he didn’t look away either.

He tapped her file on the tablet like it might sprout legs and dance. “Powder Fortune, is it?”

“Legally,” she said, popping her gum. “But most people call me Jinx. Or ‘holy shit,’ depending on the context.”

Jayce chuckled like he got the joke. Viktor didn’t even blink.

Jayce smirked, scrolling. “You sure you’re in the right room? Boutique bag, four-inch heels, ‘I bite finance bros for sport’ lipstick. We usually get applicants who look like they just crawled out of a coding bunker.”

“You want bunker gremlins, go find one,” she said. “I make things work. And I don’t cry when the prototype catches fire.”

Jayce tilted his head. “You, uh… don’t have a formal engineering degree?”

“Nope,” she said brightly. “I do have five years of freelance circuit work, three explosive patents I never filed, and a very complicated relationship with torque.”

Jayce blinked. “Is that a euphemism?”

Jinx smiled sweetly. “Depends who’s asking.”

“Miss Powder.” Viktor cleared his throat. “Your file includes work submitted under three aliases: Powder, Jinx, and—this one’s my favorite—ZapViolet77?”

She shrugged. “Had to call myself something when I was hacking drone firmware for food money at fifteen.”

Jayce grinned. “She’s got the Zaunite spirit.”

Viktor didn’t react. “Your specs are sloppy. But fast. Intuitive.”

She arched a brow. “That’s not a compliment.”

“It is,” he said. “But it’s also a warning. You cut corners to get results. That works—until something explodes.”

“Sounds like my dating life,” she said, flipping her side fringe back.

Jayce looked vaguely impressed. Viktor didn’t move.

“You worked under the late Abigail Fortune,” Viktor said.

Jinx nodded once. “Sarah’s mom. Took me in when I was fifteen and falling apart. Rest her soul—and half her workshop.”

Jayce sat up straighter, glancing briefly at Viktor before refocusing. “Right. Says here you handled gunsmithing, thermal rigging, salvaged tech integration, anti-theft countermods... That's a lot.”

“Got real cozy with illegal voltage,” she said.

“Your work on the offshore grid reroute...” Viktor’s tone shifted. Analytical, but almost grudging. “That was... efficient.”

Jinx tilted her head. “Thanks. It only caught fire twice.”

Jayce tapped the tablet again. “You’ve got range. But no credentials. No liability coverage. And you’ve changed phone numbers seven times in two years.”

“I’m a freelancer,” she said flatly. “Not a house pet.”

Jayce leaned in, grinning. “What would you say is your biggest professional strength?”

“I don’t panic under pressure.”

“And your weakness?”

“I tend to cause the pressure.”

Jayce laughed. Viktor didn’t.

“We need someone who can handle autonomous circuit calibration,” Viktor said, folding his hands. “High-risk. Compressed timeline. Non-standard tech.”

“I’m allergic to standard.”

Jayce’s grin faded. “You’d be working with a mixed team—Piltover, Zaun, a few internationals. We don’t have time for ego.”

“Then you’re gonna hate me.”

“Then keep your ego out of it.”

Viktor leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand. “We don’t care if you like the team. We care if you can build something that won’t explode.”

Jinx drummed her fingers on the bench. “Great. Sounds like fun.”

“It won’t be,” Viktor said flatly.

Jayce jumped in. “This contract runs six months. You’ll be paid by milestones—three deliverables. Non-disclosure, no side contracts. You work remote three days, on-site two. One-strike policy.”

Jinx raised a brow. “What’s the strike?”

“Missed deadline. Unapproved system override. Or, you know—felony.”

She smirked. “So the bar’s low.”

Jayce tilted his head. “We want solutions. Not drama.”

Jinx raised an eyebrow, muttering under her breath: “Spoken like a true Goldenboy...”

Jayce squinted. “What?”

She blinked, all innocence. “Nothing. Just... admiring the corporate poetry. ”

Viktor’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. “You built that resonance chamber in the Bilgewater seafloor vault?”

Jinx shrugged. “Built is a strong word. I bullied a bunch of broken parts until they did what I wanted.”

Jayce angled the tablet toward Viktor. “She’s got the ego of a CEO and the impulse control of a raccoon.”

Jinx smirked, barely a breath of laughter. “Finally, a decent LinkedIn bio.”

Then she leaned back, unbothered. “I get shit done.”

Viktor said nothing. But the corner of his mouth twitched—again.

He studied her like a puzzle that might explode if solved too directly.

Then finally—

“You start Monday.”

Jayce blinked. “Wait, what?”

“She’s qualified,” Viktor said calmly. “Her arrogance is irritating—but familiar. That’s usually a good sign.”

Jinx blinked too, frowning. “That’s it? No skill test?”

“I already tested you,” Viktor said. Then, after a pause: “Your file was flagged by Corin Revereck. He said you ‘see through code or systems like smoke.’ That’s not something he says often.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t let the name rattle her, though it echoed like a pin drop behind her eyes.

“Monday. 08:00. No onboarding fluff. You’ll get schematics and sandbox access when you clock in,” Viktor added. “And if you damage anything above replacement value, you’ll be personally liable.”

“Sounds fair.”

Jayce exhaled in resignation. “We’ll have HR send the NDA packet. You’ll need to clear a conflict-of-interest clause—especially since you’ve done work under multiple names.”

Viktor added, “We don’t care what you call yourself. But on paper, you’re Powder Fortune. That’s the system.”

Jinx stood. “Okay!”

She grabbed her coat and boutique bag, saluted mockingly, and headed for the door.

“See you Monday, Powder,” Jayce called after her, voice edged with disbelief.

She paused just long enough to smirk. He was clearly still processing the part where a red flag just got hired.

“Sure thing, Goldenboy ,” she said over her shoulder.

The door hissed shut behind her.

Behind the closed door, the sharp click of her heel faded out of earshot—

“She called me Goldenboy ,” Jayce muttered.

Viktor didn’t look up. “Yes. I heard.”

“Goldenboy , Viktor.”

“She’s observant.”

“This is going to be a nightmare.”

“She starts Monday.”

Outside, Jinx paused at the top of the stairs and let the air hit her.

The city buzzed without her. Trams screeched along the upper rails. Neon signs flickered like they were trying to fake daylight. A guy down the block was yelling at a vending machine like it had insulted his mother.

But she just stood there.

Contract secured. Brain still humming. Viktor was... something. Annoying. Smart. Unreadable.

The kind of man who looked at you like he already knew exactly where you were broken—and just hadn’t decided if it mattered yet.

And Jayce had that golden retriever thing going. All teeth and charm and carefully concealed suspicion. She could tell he was trying to place her. Piltover had a long memory and a short attention span. She just hoped his leaned toward the latter.

Her boots clicked once as she shifted her weight, but she didn’t move. Not yet.

Coat clutched closed. Boutique bag dangling off one wrist.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

[Lux 💖, 2:47 PM]

bitch if you don’t answer me soon I’m breaking into your apartment 😤😤

[Sarah 💋]

Call me tonight. I’m not kidding.

She didn’t reply. Didn’t blink. The city moved around her—neon twitching overhead, steam curling from a nearby vent like it was trying to climb out of the gutter.

She stared at the screen until it dimmed.

Then she noticed another missed call from the same number she ignored earlier.

She hadn’t even felt it ring.

Then another voicemail.

She hit play.

“Miss Powder Fortune, this is Marisol at SafeStep Shelter. I’m calling about the child you brought in two days ago. She’s locked herself in the staff restroom and refuses to eat, speak, or come out. She won’t respond to anyone-not even our trauma caseworker. We believe she may respond to you. Please come in as soon as possible. Thank you.”

The message ended.

Her stomach dropped. 

And Jinx just stood there—frozen on the steps like someone had punched the ground out from under her.

No snark. No laughter. No commentary.

Just silence.

Boutique bag dangling off her wrist. New job in hand. Victory still warm in her mouth—and suddenly tasting like metal.

“…Fuck,” she muttered.

The lobby of SafeStep Shelter smelled like lemon-scented guilt and underfunded good intentions.

The woman at the front desk named Marisol was the same person from two nights ago, same hairstyle, same clipboard—nodded when Jinx walked in. No ID check. Just the kind of nod people give to familiar faces. Or returning mistakes.

“She’s in the staff restroom,” Marisol said, gesturing past the front office. “Locked herself in two hours ago. Right after I told her there’s foster care available.”

“Foster,” Jinx echoed flatly.

“They’re willing to take her next week,” Marisol added gently. “But she got quiet. Then angry. Then vanished into the bathroom and hasn’t come out since.”

“She heard the word foster and bolted.”

A pause. Then: “She can hear?”

“Yes. And she writes fluently in two languages,” Marisol said, a flicker of pride buried under her exhaustion. “But she won’t speak. Or can’t. We’re not sure. No physical trauma on the scans, no neurological red flags. It’s... emotional. Probably selective mutism. Or maybe she just doesn’t trust anyone enough to use her voice.”

Jinx swallowed the lump rising in her throat. Shrugged like it didn’t land. “Can’t blame her.”

Marisol hesitated, then nodded toward the hallway. “She’s been in there for two hours. Maybe she’ll talk to you. Or... write. I don’t know.”

Jinx didn’t answer. Just clipped the stupid visitor badge to her shirt and headed down the corridor.

The hallway buzzed faintly under flickering fluorescent lights—the kind that always made her feel like she was being scanned. For guilt. For intentions.

She stopped outside the staff restroom. Knocked once, knuckles brushing cracked paint.

“Hey, trauma-rat. It’s me,” she called. “The dumbass who almost hit you with a car.”

Silence.

Jinx sighed. “Look, I’m not... I’m not great at this, okay? I—”

Her voice cracked. Fuck. “I just figured if you’re gonna barricade yourself in a bathroom, you should at least have company.”

Another pause.

Then: the softest click .

Jinx stepped inside—and froze.

She was crouched by the sink like a little storm cloud. Still barefoot. Hoodie swallowing her whole. Arms locked tight around that plague-rat plush like it was keeping her anchored to Earth.

No words. Just a steady stare.

Then she pointed at Jinx’s phone.

Jinx blinked. “...You wanna rob me or...?”

The girl rolled her eyes like a tired cat and repeated the gesture: pocket, mouth, phone.

“Right,” Jinx muttered, pulling it out, and unlocking the screen. “Sure. Just take my shit.”

The kid sat cross-legged on the tile and started typing into the Notes app like it was her first language. Then held it up:

My name’s Isha! Not trauma-rat 😠

Please take me with you.

I don’t want to go to foster care.

Jinx stopped breathing.

The air punched out of her lungs like someone had slammed a wrench into her chest.

She’d been that kid. Different decade, different war zone—but the same message. Take me. Don’t leave. I’ll be good. I promise.

Her fingers hovered. Then, slowly, she reached down and took Isha’s hand.

No words. Just pressure. Just real.

She cleared her throat. Tried to pretend her eyes didn’t sting.

“Alright, ” she muttered. “Let’s go talk to the adults.”

And together, they walked out.

Back at the front desk, Marisol blinked at them.

“...You’re taking her?”

Jinx shrugged. “Not like taking taking . Just... letting her crash with me. Temporarily.”

“You mean to start the process to foster?” Marisol clarified gently, voice soft but still professional. “Possibly adopt?”

Jinx blinked. Then flinched. “...Sure. Whatever. What’s the damage?”

Marisol sighed and pulled out a file folder the size of a brick. “Okay,” she said. “First—SafeStep only works with licensed foster guardians. You’d need to complete that paperwork and a background check before anything else. Once licensed, we can place Isha with you on a temporary basis while her legal status is sorted.”

“I can’t just take her?” Jinx asked, panic flickering behind her eyes.

“She’s not legally free for adoption yet,” Marisol said. “Her parents died last month. The paperwork only cleared recently. Until she’s officially declared a ward of the state, we can’t finalize placement. But you can foster her in the meantime.”

Jinx’s mouth opened. Closed.

Marisol flipped to another section. “You’ll need a permanent address. Proof of employment. Preferably a partner or support system for her caseworker’s weekly evaluations. If you pass all that, and once Isha’s legal freedom comes through, you’ll be eligible to petition for adoption after six months.”

Six months.

She didn’t even know where she was sleeping next month.

Marisol watched the panic bloom behind her eyes. “If it helps,” she said gently, “we want her placed with someone she trusts. But the state has its rules.”

Jinx stared down at the file like it was a live grenade.

Permanent address? She was holed up in an Airbnb.

A job? Starting Monday. Technically.

Partner? Fucking hilarious.

She looked down at the girl—still holding her hand like it was a parachute cord. Still quiet. Still here.

Her heart did something it hadn’t done in years.

It twitched.

She didn’t have a plan. Didn’t even have a spare toothbrush at her place. But she’d been this kid. And nobody came for her. Not until it was too late.

Before she could say anything, Marisol’s eyes shifted—then lit up, eyebrows lifting.

Jinx blinked. “What?”

A voice came from behind her.

“Hey, babe. Sorry—crazy day at work. Guess you got here faster than I thought.”

Jinx turned.

Ekko was standing there, leaning against the counter like this was normal .

She gawked at him.

He didn’t even look at her first—just crouched beside the kid like he’d been doing it for years. No hesitation. No pity. Just calm.

“Hey, you,” he said gently. “Mind if I sit?”

Isha didn’t respond. Just clutched the rat plush tighter.

But she didn’t move away either.

Jinx watched, stunned, as he held out a fist. Waited. Isha bumped it after a long second like this was a routine they’d already established.

The hell?

Her eyes narrowed. How the fuck was he good at this? Like he knew her.

Ekko glanced up at Jinx and gave her that old-school wink—the one they used back when running scams in the Lanes.

It hit her like a gut punch.

Marisol blinked, surprised. “You’re the partner?”

“Yup,” Ekko said smoothly. “Hope I’m not too late.”

Marisol beamed like this was entirely normal. “You're just in time. We were going over the first steps.”

He slid into the chair beside Isha like he’d been there the whole time. Casually brushed invisible lint off his half-wrinkled navy work jacket.

Jinx just stared. At him. At the kid. At the absurdity of this whole moment.

She hadn’t told him shit .

And yet—he was here.

“Noticed some paperwork,” he said, grabbing a pen like it was no big deal.

She blinked, still catching up.

Marisol looked between them, something soft creeping into her face. “Well... as long as you're both committed to supporting Isha, we can get started.”

Jinx glanced at him—hesitant, questioning.

Ekko met her gaze and grinned, leaning back in his chair like he had nothing but time.

Her brow furrowed.

Gears turned. Then clicked.

Oh.

Right.

The fucking emergency contact form.

She’d scribbled his number without thinking—half sarcasm, half habit, half not expecting anyone to actually use it. But apparently someone at SafeStep had .

Of course they had.

Of all the impulsive, half-baked shit she’d done this week, trusting a clipboard with her old childhood friend’s info had somehow managed to backfire and bail her out in the same breath.

She glanced at him again.

Still playing it cool. Like showing up for her wasn’t a big deal.

Typical fucking Boy Savior.

Marisol handed Jinx the pen. “You’ll both need to sign the preliminary foster paperwork. And we'll need proof of shared residence soon.”

Jinx just stood there, looking from Ekko to Isha to the terrifying, hilarious, impossible moment her life had apparently become.

Ekko’s arm brushed hers as he leaned in.

“So,” he murmured, grin never fading, “where do we sign?”

Chapter Text

The voicemail clicked off.

Silence. Except not silence—the sterile hum of the lab, the kind of sound that made your skin itch if you listened too long.

Ekko didn’t move. The woman’s voice still echoed, calm and professional in a way that felt worse than if she’d screamed.

“…listed you as her emergency contact.”

He stared at the cracked screen, thumb hovering. A laugh barked out of him—sharp, ugly, joyless. The sound of a gear grinding into place whether he wanted it to or not.

Of course she did.

Of all the dead numbers she could’ve pulled from their wreckage, she’d written his. Not out of thought. Out of reflex. Out of muscle memory, like scrawling graffiti on a wall she’d already burned down. Sixteen years later, and she was still wiring tripwires to his name.

He dragged a hand over his face, stubble rasping like sandpaper. The last two weeks—Zeri’s betrayal, Claggor’s silence, the hollow ache that refused to fade—settled back into him heavier than before. Only now it carried something else. Purpose.

Because the woman hadn’t just sounded professional. She’d sounded tired. Tired in the way people sound right before the system eats a kid alive.

And now that kid was tied to Jinx.

Ekko shoved himself up, grabbed his jacket, and moved before he could second-guess it. Jayce’s cheerful, armchair-wisdom bullshit floated back, dripping irony:

Everyone’s messy. You just gotta find the kind of mess that makes you laugh more than it makes you tired.

Yeah. Well, this wasn’t funny. This was his mess. His number.

The drive was muscle memory. Tesla humming through Zaun like a ghost, while the city hissed and spat all around. He saw it in double exposure: grime and neon laid over the ghosts of alleys he used to race down with her, mouths tasting of cheap synth-ale and bad ideas. The air was still the same—burnt metal and wet stone, the tang of a promise you couldn’t trust.

His hands locked white-knuckled on the wheel. This wasn’t anger. Anger was clean, a burn you could use. This was heavier. Rust knotted with duty, dragging him back down to ground he thought he’d finally climbed off.

SafeStep Shelter. Squat, gray, with a dying sign that buzzed like it was begging for euthanasia. Every inch of it screamed “underfunded, well-meaning failure.”

He killed the engine and sat there in the hush of the car, breathing once. No plan. No solution. Just the name in her file, the number on her form.

The emergency contact. The backup system. The call you make when everything else breaks.

The lobby reeked of antiseptic and bad luck. Fluorescents hummed overhead, a low funeral dirge, bleaching everything in ugly light: the sagging couches, the curling posters promising futures that were already dead on arrival.

Behind a scratched sheet of plexiglass, a woman with kind-but-fried eyes was talking to someone.

Jinx.

He knew that posture instantly. Rigid spine, squared shoulders—an unspoken “fuck you” aimed at the whole room. She looked like she’d been dropped into a place she refused to belong. Trench coat too nice for the peeling linoleum, one boot heel tapping out a frantic rhythm she probably didn’t even notice.

Armor. She always wore armor.

But he saw the cracks. He always did. The set of her neck too tight. The wire in her stance pulled taut. She was one wrong word away from snapping.

And beside her—small, silent, hanging onto her jeans like a lifeline—was a girl.

His gut seized.

The kid from the street. The one standing barefoot in the dark two nights ago, a ghost in a hoodie. Same tangled hair. Same hollow frame swallowed by fabric. Same death-grip on a stuffed rat that looked like it had survived more wars than he had. One button eye dangled loose, still holding on out of pure spite.

Guilt punched through him, hot and useless. He’d seen her. Sat in the car, felt the gut-jolt, and let Jinx drive away.

The desk worker— Marisol , her name tag read—kept her voice soft, measured.

“…proof of employment. Preferably a partner or support system for her caseworker’s weekly evaluations.”

There. That flicker. No one else would’ve noticed. But he did. Jaw twitch. Weight shifting forward. The micro-calculation of someone mapping out escape routes.

Marisol slid a fat file folder across the counter. “If you pass all that, you’ll be eligible to petition for adoption after six months.”

Jinx stared at it like the paper might lunge and bite. Permanent address. Partner. Structure. A life. The exact shit she’d spent her whole existence sprinting away from.

She was going to bolt. He knew it in his marrow. Sarcasm, some sharp exit line—and she’d be gone, leaving the girl behind.

Just like another girl had been left sixteen years ago.

-

Ash in the air. Sirens bleeding red and blue over smoke. He was twelve again, standing in rubble.

And there she had been. Powder. Standing small, face blank, smeared in soot. Eyes empty. Not crying. Not screaming. Just gone.

He’d moved to step toward her—say anything—but the shadow got there first. Silco. Whispering words Ekko couldn’t hear, wrapping her in his coat, leading her away.

And Ekko had stood there. Frozen. Doing nothing. Letting him take her.

-

A click —the pen hitting Marisol’s desk—dragged him back.

The memory clung, heavy and cold. Isha clutched her rat plush like it was oxygen. Jinx was coiled to run, instincts screaming at her to cut loose and survive, no matter the collateral.

He couldn’t let it play out again. Not after the first time.

He moved before logic could stop him. Stepped forward, leaned against the counter like it was casual, like he wasn’t about to upend his whole life. Voice pitched low and easy, the old bluff they’d used as kids when the only currency they had was charm.

“Hey, babe. Sorry—crazy day at work. Guess you got here faster than I thought.”

The next hour blurred—forms in triplicate, signatures that meant nothing, Marisol’s hopeful smile stretched thin over exhaustion. Jinx went through the motions like a ghost forced into flesh, her presence sharp and resentful. Every signature was less a promise than a slash of ink—like she was stabbing the paper instead of signing it.

By the time they spilled back into the damp Zaun night, the lie already had a case number. A neat little file stamped with bureaucracy. And in the middle of it: Isha’s hand, tucked into Jinx’s, small and devastatingly real.

Ekko held the passenger door open. The sterile glow of the interior light cut across Jinx’s face, washing her out, hollowing her into something hunted. She slid in without a word. Isha climbed into the back, buckling herself in with grim efficiency that didn’t belong on a kid her age.

He shut the driver’s door. The car sealed around them with a soft thud, vacuum-tight. Just like that, it was official: the project was live. And he was lead engineer on a machine he knew was going to blow.

The Tesla purred awake, the only sound a faint electric hum and the hammer of his own pulse. He drove with surgical precision, clinging to the ritual of it, every motion calibrated.

Jinx broke first. Her voice cut through the air like glass—low, sharp, venom-precise.

“You had no right.”

He didn’t bother playing dumb. Eyes locked on neon bleeding across wet asphalt, he answered flat. “You were going to run. I saw it.”

“That’s not the point!” she snapped, voice ricocheting in the car’s silence. “You had no right to speak for me. To stroll in and play fucking savior. You trapped me.”

His grip on the wheel tightened, bone white. “I made a choice to keep a kid out of the system. The kid you found. The kid you dragged in when you slapped my name on that form. Partner was the only card on the table, Jinx. You saw the paperwork. What did you expect? That I let you bolt and dump her because the fix wasn’t perfect?”

Her laugh was a broken thing, closer to a snarl. “My fix was to leave because I’m not a fucking foster parent, Ekko!” Her voice cracked, raw panic riding shotgun with fury. “I’m a menace. A walking demolition site. And you just locked a kid inside the blast radius.”

He risked the mirror. Isha sat stone still, rat-plush clutched like a lifeline. Wide eyes trained on them, not afraid—just… resigned. Like she’d been here before. Backseat witness to the same script, different cast. The realization gutted him.

The fight bled out of him, leaving resolve in its place. Heavy, bone-deep, immovable. The decision was inked. The fallout was breathing behind them.

“Then we make it work,” he said. His voice was low, steady, projecting conviction he wasn’t sure he had. “Six months. We make it work.”

Jinx stared at him, chest heaving, eyes a hurricane—rage, fear, betrayal. Too many sharp edges for him to name. Then she snapped her gaze forward, slamming the wall back up.

Silence took over. Not the quiet kind—the drowning kind. He drove through it, the car heavy with unspoken words, like the whole city outside was underwater.

The door clicked shut behind her. Soft. Final. Vault-sealed.

Hostility rose in her chest like smoke.

Same place. Same aggressively neat little shrine to order she’d fled two nights ago, swearing she’d dodged a bullet. The air was the same too—engineered-clean, sanitized into nothing, the kind of smell that made her jaw clench. Concrete floors polished to a mirror. Black sectional at its exact ninety-degree angle. Sketchbooks stacked so precisely they might as well have been measured with a micrometer.

Untouched. Perfect.

Except now it wasn’t just a room she could bail on. It was a cell.

Her eyes swept it over like a convict cataloging her cage. His fortress. His fucking museum of control. And now he’d dragged her and all her jagged edges inside.

“Bathroom’s down the hall. First on the right.”

His voice carried that calm, patient tone she’d always hated—the one he used when breaking physics into crayons-and-picture-book for her, like she was an equation he still hadn’t solved.

She cut him a look sharp enough to split wires. “I remember. My memory lasts longer than a goldfish’s, thanks.”

Isha’s hand slipped free. Jinx kicked off her heels. The clatter on concrete cracked through the silence like vandalism, a beautiful little crime against his symmetry. She left them where they fell, ugly and loud, a rebellion in miniature.

“Guest room’s the second door,” he said, ignoring her tone, already moving to take Isha’s jacket with infuriating calm.

“Right,” she drawled, acid coating the word. “The one that’s not your room. Got it.”

Her mind was already racing. She couldn’t stay here. Not one minute more without her stuff—her weapons, her chaos, her armor. She needed her things to build a barricade against this suffocating order.

“I’m getting my things,” she announced, yanking her phone out of her pocket. Real excuse, sharper motive. “Airbnb.”

“I can drive you,” he said, smooth, reasonable, controlling.

“No.” The word snapped like a blade. She brushed past him, shoulder slamming into his on purpose. A reminder. I’m still here. I’m still unsolvable.

“I’ll be back.”

She slid her feet back into her heels, opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and pulled it closed behind her.

The lock clicked, sealing him back inside his quiet, clinical fortress. She inhaled deep, filling her lungs with Zaun’s grime and chaos, air that reeked of life instead of recycled filters. For the first time since signing that goddamn paper, she could breathe again.

The door clicked shut behind her. Softer than the slam she probably wanted, but heavier somehow. Like the pause between lightning and thunder.

Ekko stood in the middle of his own apartment, and it didn’t feel like his. The walls pressed in and stretched out all at once, mapped with invisible tripwires he knew she’d planted years ago. Every surface was suspect.

Then his eyes landed on the couch.

On Isha.

She was curled tight, pillow over her head, a kid trying to disappear into upholstery. Not asleep—he could see the faint tremor running through her shoulders. A ghost watching a war she hadn’t signed up for.

Guilt rose fast and sharp, a chemical burn in his chest. His grand plan, his bright idea—and already the smallest one in the room was bracing for fallout.

He crouched, slow, careful, like approaching a feral animal. “Hey,” he murmured. “It’s okay. She’ll be back.”

Promise? Threat? He couldn’t tell.

The pillow slid down. Those wide, dark eyes fixed on him, steady, assessing. Not scared. Just… calculating. Judging. Like she’d seen this circus before and was just deciding how long he’d last in it.

He felt it in his bones: he needed to get control of something, anything, before the whole structure collapsed. One thought cut through the static—Ezreal.

His roommate was due back. Walking into this blind was a recipe for chaos that even he couldn’t manage. Ekko pulled himself upright, retreated to the kitchen island, and thumbed open his phone. Better to preempt than watch Ezreal detonate live.

[Ekko, 7:47 PM]

Hey. Need to give you a heads up.

The reply came instantly. The man typed like he was caffeinated through an IV.

[Ezreal, 7:47 PM]

oh god what did you break
wait
is this about Zeri?? did you do the sad ex text?? I TOLD you not to do the sad ex text

Ekko exhaled a dry, humorless sound. Zeri felt like a lifetime ago.

[Ekko, 7:48 PM]

No. Not Zeri. Something else. Long story. Point is, you’re going to have new roommates when you get home. Temporarily.

Dots. Vanished. Reappeared. He could picture it: Ezreal leaning forward, shark-grin, scenting blood in the water.

[Ezreal, 7:49 PM]

“roommates” plural??? 👀
don’t lie to me ekko i can smell hesitation from here
i’m getting my tinfoil hat

Ekko pinched the bridge of his nose. No spin. Just blunt-force truth.

[Ekko, 7:50 PM]

Plural. It’s her. From the party. And a kid.

Send. The words glared back at him—stark, insane, confessional. Ten seconds of silence. Then a minute or two before his phone buzzed like it wanted out of his hand.

[Ezreal, 7:52 PM]

A. KID.

[Ezreal, 7:52 PM]

EKKO.

[Ezreal, 7:52 PM]

YOU BROUGHT THE FINAL BOSS OF YOUR EMOTIONAL BAGGAGE HOME WITH A MYSTERY CHILD SIDE QUEST AND YOU ARE TELLING ME THIS OVER TEXT????

[Ezreal, 7:52 PM]

I’M HYPERVENTILATING. do i buy champagne or call a lawyer. both?? probably both.

Ekko scrubbed a hand down his face, exhaustion flattening him against the counter. Should’ve let the chaos hit live.

[Ekko, 7:53 PM]

It’s complicated. It’s for the kid. Just… when you get home, don’t make it a thing.

Dots again. Pulsing like a countdown.

[Ezreal, 7:54 PM]

“don’t make it a thing”???my friend. my brother. my emotionally constipated roommate. you just detonated a narrative bomb in the middle of our tastefully decorated apartment. this isn’t “a thing.” this is THE PLOT.
i’m almost home. don’t do anything else dramatic. i want a front row seat.

Ekko locked the phone, set it face-down on granite that felt colder than it should. The warning hadn’t defused the bomb—it had just given Ezreal the detonator and a fold-out chair.

He looked back at the couch. At the girl hugging her ratty plush like it was the only anchor she had. She was the epicenter. The reason he hadn’t walked away.

Now he just had to hope they all survived the aftershocks.

Jinx walked.

Heels cracking sharp against the pavement, each step an exorcism. Click-clack, click-clack—her favorite sound. Moving meant leaving. Leaving meant living.

A ride-share swerved up, paint peeling, interior glowing a migraine shade of purple. She yanked the door open and slid inside. The air was shimmer-sticks, stale sweat, and bad decisions. The driver grunted, floored it, and the speakers rattled with bass-heavy synth trash. It was awful. Perfect.

Her world. Not Ekko’s silent, sterile spaceship of a car. This one smelled like regret and lived-in chaos.

Neon streaked across the window glass as the city sped past. That held-breath panic she’d been strangling since the shelter clawed its way up her chest—acid, burning. She’d signed six months of her life away. Six months trapped in his curated museum of order. Six months of him. Six months of suffocation dressed as concern.

Her phone was in her hand before she thought about it, thumb scrolling fast, frantic, hunting for an anchor that wasn’t him.

Lux 💖.
No. Too soft. Too bright. Lux would smother her with bubbly empathy, tell her to “communicate” and “open up.” Jinx didn’t want comfort. She wanted a blade.

Sarah 💋.
Perfect.

She hit call. Two rings.

“Wow. You actually called. So either you’re bleeding out or you want to brag.” Sarah’s voice slid through, low and amused, sharp edges honed to perfection.

“Can’t it be both?” Jinx leaned her head against the glass, trying for breezy, landing closer to ragged.

“No. You only gloat in person so you can watch me pretend to care,” Sarah shot back, bone-dry. “So what’s the mess, J? Spit it out.”

A snort cracked through Jinx’s panic, rough and real. “Worse than usual. I think I accidentally picked up a kid.”

Silence. Then laughter, low and delighted, curling like smoke. “Oh, that’s rich. Congratulations. Still has all its limbs?”

“As far as I can tell. Silent, feral, death glare to rival yours. You’d adore her.”

“And the mess part?” Sarah pressed, voice dripping with mock-sympathy. “Don’t tell me you’re stuck actually keeping it.”

Jinx’s throat tightened. The words tasted like ash. “Yeah... So to keep her out of the system, I needed a partner with a stable address. So… I got one.”

Sarah’s tone sharpened, cutting straight through. “Not some random local. History. It’s him, isn’t it? The boy wonder from Zaun.”

Jinx’s jaw clenched. God, she hated how Sarah could dismantle her life like an engine schematic. “It’s performance. Paperwork. Six months.”

“Uh-huh. ‘Business.’” Jinx could hear the flick of a lighter, Sarah inhaling. “Okay, let’s look at the board. You’ve got the kid. You’ve got the ghost. And now you’ve strapped yourself to a six-month timer. Where’s your exit strategy, J?”

The question sliced clean through. Jinx’s mouth opened—nothing. She hadn’t looked for the exits. Not this time.

“It’s about the kid,” she snapped, too fast, too defensive. “She was gonna end up in the system.”

“The kid is the buy-in,” Sarah said calmly, smoke and knives in her tone. “You always need an excuse. Remember the thermal rig in Bilgewater? You swore it was about money. Bullshit. It was about torching the asshole who called you unstable. So what’s this really about? What’s the prize?”

Her stomach flipped. Ash in her mouth. Patterns she couldn’t shake.

“I’ve got it under control,” Jinx forced out. Thin. Hollow.

“No, you don’t.” Sarah’s voice was steady, factual, lethal in its certainty. “You never do. You want something, you reach for it, then you burn it down just to see if it screams. This time you’ve picked a bomb with teeth.” A beat. “Don’t call me for bail when it all goes sideways.”

The line cut dead.

Jinx stared at her screen, black and empty.

The ride lurched to a stop in front of the glass-and-chrome monolith of her Airbnb. She shoved money at the driver and bolted.

Upstairs, the apartment greeted her like it always did: clean, expensive, anonymous. The kind of space designed for ghosts. She’d called it freedom once. Right now, it just felt hollow.

She grabbed a box, started shoving her life into it—gadgets, tools, clothes, everything crammed fast, messy. Every piece wrong. Every piece screaming not-home.

She needed out. Needed back to the cage.

Because at least in the cage, she wouldn’t be alone.

The ride back was static. Neon smeared past the window, concrete blurred into concrete, but Jinx didn’t see any of it. She only heard Sarah. That damn voice—smooth steel, smoke, and certainty—still running diagnostics in her skull.

“This time you’ve picked a bomb with teeth.”
“Where’s your exit strategy, J?”

The words looped, needling, acidic. She didn’t have an exit strategy. For the first time, she’d walked into a room without mapping the escape routes. Worse—she was sealing them up with her own hands.

By the time she hit the apartment, she came in like a storm breaking—no grand entrance, no swagger. Just the desperate churn of something cornered, clawing for shelter. The boxes hit the floor with her duffel, the thud flat and final. Not rebellion. Resignation. She was here. Trapped.

From the kitchen, she felt Ekko’s eyes on her. That steady, surgical kind of stare—like he was dissecting her in real time, trying to pin down the pattern. He said nothing. Just watched. Gave her “space.” Calculated patience. It infuriated her more than questions ever could.

She ignored him. Dropped to her knees, tore into the first box like it owed her blood. Gear spilled out—her half-gutted drone, coils of charger cords, the ratty t-shirt she’d been hauling around for years. None of it felt like her . More like case evidence. Relics from crimes she hadn’t gotten caught for yet.

She dragged it all into the guest room—her room now. No. Her workshop. Her nest. A pocket of chaos to infect his sterile, catalog-perfect apartment. She unpacked the essentials: drivers, spanners, soldering iron. Cold weight in her hands. Comfort in the form of metal and grease.

Then, from the false bottom of her duffel, the real heart of it: a slim, matte case. Dark, non-reflective metal. She popped it open. Inside, nestled in old velvet, gleamed her set of custom picks. Balanced, delicate, surgical. Not toys. Not keepsakes. Instruments.

Silco’s issue. His fingerprints still all over them, even after years. Not gifts. Orders. Tools to carve her into what he wanted. She should’ve tossed them a long time ago. She couldn’t.

And then the room cracked open.

She was fourteen again.

-

“…Your chaos, my dear… that is a gift.” Silco’s voice crawled up her spine, smoke and oil. His hand heavy on her shoulder, mock-paternal, branding her his. “It’s the fire that will burn their perfect world down. Don’t you dare let anyone—least of all him—convince you to put it out.”

-

“Jinx.”

Ekko’s voice cut through, clean and sharp, severing the memory at the root.

She blinked, dragged back into the now. Guest room. Tools. The open case on the bed.

He was behind her. Close. Too quiet.

“You okay?”

The ghost tried to claw back up. She shoved it down, locked it in.

“Peachy,” she said, voice brittle, smile sharp enough to cut herself on.

“Bringing the whole kit, huh.”
His words were light, but the weight behind them wasn’t. History clung to his tone like rust on metal, eating through the polish no matter how hard he tried to play casual.

“Comes in handy,” she muttered without looking up, her fingers brushing over the cool curve of a tension wrench like it was a rosary.

Silence stretched. Then his voice again, colder now. Sharper.
“Let me see that set.”

Not a question. A demand.

Jinx froze for a beat, then twisted around with a smirk so brittle it could’ve shattered if he breathed too hard. “What—changed careers? Didn’t peg you for the breaking-and-entering type.”

He wasn’t listening. His eyes were locked on the case. That flicker—dark, old, familiar—lit up in his gaze, and suddenly the guest room felt claustrophobic. He stepped in close, shrinking the space just by being in it. No permission asked, none needed. His hand cut through the air and plucked a wrench from the velvet. Precise. Efficient. Like he’d done this a hundred times before.

He weighed it in his palm. Voice dropped to almost a whisper.
“Gunmetal finish. He had all his gear done by the same smith. Lower Undercity. I remember it—saw some of his men carrying the same.” He looked up then, eyes pinning her to the floorboards. “These were Silco’s. Weren’t they? Or the ones he had made for you.”

It hit like a punch to the gut. Not a guess. Not speculation. He knew . He’d just tied her present to the ghost she couldn’t scrape off.

“He had good taste,” she shot back, reflexive, snarling. She snapped the case shut with a violent crack. “He knew you don’t get anything worth having without breaking a few locks.”

Ekko’s jaw flexed. “He was a drug peddler and a thug, Jinx. He didn’t give you tools to build something. He gave you tools to break in and take what wasn’t yours. He groomed you to be his thief.”

Truth, jagged and merciless, cut under her skin like wire. And she struck back, fast, dirty—because she knew where his soft spots were buried.

“And you’d know all about being a thief, wouldn’t you?” Her voice was acid, steady and sharp. “Sneaking into Jayce’s apartment for blueprints, for prototypes. Who shoved that idea into my head, Ekko? You. ”

The words landed like a slap. He flinched. His color drained, righteous fury buckling into something older. Shared guilt. “That was different. We were kids.”

Her laugh came out broken, a snarl tearing itself raw in her throat. “We were kids when you and Vi left me with Silco too!” The scream ripped the room apart, sixteen years of wreckage collapsing in its wake. “He was all I had left! And yeah, his trade was dirty, but it kept me breathing. You don’t get to stand here and judge the tools I needed to survive the mess you all left me in!”

The air vibrated, crackling with live wires. The velvet case on the desk sat there like a bomb, humming with their ghosts.

From the other room, a small sound—soft, hesitant. Isha. Shifting on the couch. The reminder sliced through everything: that the next generation was already inside the blast radius.

Neither of them moved. He wouldn’t back down. She wouldn’t break. The silence between them wasn’t silence at all—it was screaming, high-pitched, endless, filling every inch of air they had left.

Her scream— “the mess you all left me in!” —was still rattling around in his skull when the front door detonated open.

The sound hit like a concussion grenade. Ekko’s whole body jolted, nerves short-circuiting, fight-or-flight launching into a useless feedback loop.

“—’cause my body’s a temple, and tonight it’s open for worship 🎶”

Ezreal.
Of course it was Ezreal.

The timing was so cosmically bad, so aggressively catastrophic, that Ekko felt hysteria rise in his throat like bile.

His roommate sauntered in, grocery bag swinging, grin plastered on like he’d just won something. The grin didn’t fade when he caught the scene—it evaporated. In its place: wide-eyed fascination, the reverent look of a man spotting a venomous predator in the wild.

Ekko knew exactly what Ezreal was seeing. Him—pale, stiff, rooted in the doorway of the guest room like a man standing over a fresh corpse. And across from him: Jinx. That Jinx. The vaguely-threatening, unquestionably-hot best friend of Lux, coiled like a live wire, eyes burning bright with something feral. The air between them thrummed like it might arc and catch fire.

“Whoa,” Ezreal whispered, like a man spotting a double rainbow. He set the bag down on the island with exaggerated care, as if sudden movement might trigger an explosion. “Okay. So… the apocalyptic unresolved sexual tension from the party decided to shack up? And you didn’t tell me?”

Ekko’s jaw twitched. Jinx didn’t even bother to look at Ezreal, which somehow made it worse. The tension stayed taut, razor-thin, until—

A sound. Small. Fragile.

The couch. Isha shifted, sitting up, rubbing at her eyes.

Ekko’s stomach fell through the floor. He’d forgotten. In the middle of Jinx’s fury, in the white-hot sting of his own sixteen-year-old failures, he had forgotten about the kid sitting right there in the blast radius.

Ezreal’s jaw dropped. His gaze ping-ponged: Jinx. Ekko. The kid. Then back again. The glee spread across his face like sunrise.

“Oh. My. God.” His voice was reverent, horrified, thrilled. “You two didn’t just speed-run the whole shared-trauma-to-domesticity pipeline. You actually— actually —got yourselves a kid.” His stare locked on Ekko, eyes glittering with terrible, chaotic pride. “This is the most deranged thing you’ve ever done, Ekko. I’m honored to witness it.”

Ekko wanted the floor to swallow him. Or maybe for the universe to mercy-kill him. Either option worked.

Ezreal, oblivious, crouched a little, his voice softening as his gaze shifted to Isha. “Hey there, Tiny Goth Icon. Sorry about the dramatic entrance. The, uh—adults—are just having a… spirited debate.”

From the other room, Jinx’s voice cut in, still vibrating with leftover rage, sharp as broken glass.
“It’s not a debate.”

She had her back to them. Which somehow felt more dangerous than if she’d still been looking.

Ezreal, unfazed as ever, leaned against the kitchen island like he was settling in for primetime television. “Okay, so, putting aside the fact the air in here could probably curdle milk, I’ve got one practical question.” His voice had that performative lilt again—the tone he used when he was enjoying himself way too much. “Your little SOS text was light on logistics but heavy on existential dread. So—where’s everyone sleeping? Because I’m pretty sure our lease only covers the two of us and the occasional one-night stand with emotional baggage.”

The weight of it hit Ekko like a body blow. The practical, stupid reality. He hadn’t thought this far. Of course he hadn’t.

“I’ll take the couch,” he said too quickly. The only answer. The safe one. The coward’s one. A flimsy buffer zone.

Jinx’s laugh sliced across the apartment—sharp, humorless, brutal. She didn’t even bother turning around. “Genius. Real airtight cover story, Boy Scout. ‘Yes, we’re a committed couple, which is why he sleeps next to the ficus in the living room.’ The caseworker’s gonna love that.”

And fuck her, she was right. He hated that she was right.

“She has a point,” Ezreal chimed, eyes glinting as he stirred the pot with the grace of a man born for chaos. “The optics are appalling. We need something more elegant. Something that screams stability. Sacrifice. Domestic bliss.”

Ekko groaned internally. He knew that look. Ezreal was about to drop a bomb.

Snap. “I’ve got it.” Ezreal strode over and laid a hand on Ekko’s shoulder with fake solemnity. “My friend. The answer is obvious. I will make the ultimate sacrifice.”

Ekko just stared at him.

“Isha—our stoic little goth heroine—needs her own room.” Ezreal gestured broadly at the couch like a game show host. “Therefore, she gets mine. And I… will nobly take the couch.” He even sighed, the bastard.

Ekko saw the play immediately. Ezreal wasn’t sacrificing. He was cornering him. Six months on the couch? Not happening.

Jinx finally turned, arching a brow. She clocked it instantly. And then she smiled—slow, smug, razor-sharp. Raising the stakes.

“Don’t be a martyr, Blondie,” she purred, mock-sweet. “He’s got that overpriced pull-out in his office. Bigger than your bed. He can crash there. Separate room, separate everything. Everyone wins.”

Her eyes locked on his. A challenge. It was a perfect out. Clean, plausible, believable. A lifeline.

But as he looked at her—at the smirk she wore like armor, at the fear hiding underneath it—and then at Isha, watching them both with those heavy, knowing eyes, he knew it was bullshit. Too easy. Too obvious. The kind of lie that would collapse the second anyone leaned on it.

There was only one move left. The terrifying one.

“No.”

Her smirk died instantly. Ezreal’s pout faltered.

“She’s right about the caseworker. And you’re right about optics.” Ekko took a breath, the words burning like metal in his throat. “Isha gets Ezreal’s room. Ez, you take the guest room. We’ll figure out something better for you later.”

He paused. Then dropped the hammer.

“Jinx and I… take my room.”

The silence was suffocating. Ezreal’s jaw actually dropped.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ezreal stammered. “Are you sure ? Because that sounds… combustible.”

“It’s the only setup that works,” Ekko said flatly. His eyes stayed on Jinx.

Her face was a storm—shock, panic, rage, something he couldn’t name. He was trapping her. He was trapping himself.

Ezreal grinned like Christmas came early. “Perfect! Love it! Domestic bliss solved. I’ll just…” He snatched the tequila bottle from the counter, shoved it into Ekko’s hands. “You’re gonna need this more than me.”

He vanished down the hall with a wink at Isha.

And then it was just them. The conclusion hanging between them, heavy, inevitable: they had to share a room. His room.

He looked at her. She looked back, face pale, unreadable. His heartbeat was a jackhammer in his chest. He’d engineered the solution—and locked himself in a cage with the one person who knew exactly how to break him.

Her lips parted. The word slipped out, quiet, raw.

“Oh, fuck.”

Not a curse. A prayer.

And he found himself praying it right along with her.

The silence Ezreal left behind was worse than his chaos. At least chaos had sound, motion, distraction. This was just… airless. The faint click of his bedroom door sealing shut might as well have been the sound of a tomb locking.

Ekko stood frozen in the living room, the words he’d just spoken still hanging there like a death sentence. “Jinx and I… will take my room.” They didn’t even sound real. They sounded like something said by another man—some reckless stranger who had volunteered to live in a cage with the one person capable of dismantling him bolt by bolt until nothing was left but rust.

Jinx hadn’t moved. She was still posted up by the doorway to what was now Ezreal’s room—arms folded, face pale, unreadable. The fury was gone. Worse had taken its place: stillness. The kind of silence that waits to see how you’ll hang yourself. He’d trapped her. And she knew it.

He needed to move. Do something. Anything to stop the whole structure from collapsing before it even got built.

First thought, sharp as a knife: Isha.

He crossed to the couch, crouched. The girl was awake, eyes wide and dark, soaking it all in. A witness. A ghost.

“Hey,” he murmured, trying for calm, but his throat was raw. “Time for bed. You’ve got your own room now.”

She blinked, stared a second too long, then nodded. He scooped her up. Too light. Too fragile. Her hair brushed his jaw, carrying that faint, chemical-clean smell from the shelter. She rested her head against his shoulder without protest. Just trust. Simple, unguarded trust. It carved him open like glass.

He carried her down the hall into Ezreal’s old room. Tucked her in. Pulled the blanket to her chin. She curled small around the rat-plush, already closing her eyes, silent as ever. Not a complaint, not a demand. Just… there.

It gutted him.

He slipped out, leaving the door cracked an inch. A necessary task complete. A sixty-second delay bought.

When he turned back, she was still there. Same spot. Same stare. Waiting.

“Okay,” he rasped. He gestured toward his room at the end of the hall. The words felt like sandpaper tearing out of his throat. “Let’s… figure this out.”

The ten-foot walk stretched into eternity. He opened the door and stepped in, his sanctuary already tainted. Her boxes sat in the corner, a bomb of chaos detonated in his clean lines. The air was heavy, charged, carrying the ghosts of the fight they’d just had—and the sharper ghost of two nights ago.

Her on his bed.
Her voice, casual, devastating. If you want, we can fuck.

He still felt that wire humming between them, live, dangerous, waiting.

This was untenable. He needed a firewall. A blueprint. Something to keep them from burning the place—and each other—to the ground.

“We need rules.”
The words came out clipped, precise, like he was filing paperwork instead of standing in his own bedroom about to lose his goddamn mind. It was the only way he could survive this: treat her like an engineering problem.

Jinx slid in after him, but didn’t venture far. She leaned against the doorframe, the human equivalent of a deadbolt, arms folded like she was guarding the only exit. Her face gave him nothing, but her shoulders betrayed her—tight, drawn like bowstrings.

“Okay,” she murmured. “Shoot.”

He pointed at the bed—the queen-sized, traitorous slab of furniture that suddenly looked like it had been dropped there by a sadistic god. “That’s yours. I’ll take the couch.”

His sleek, grey, book-reading couch. The one that was definitely not built for a six-foot man to collapse on for the next six months.

Her eyes flicked to it, then back to him. A flicker crossed her face, sharp and merciless. Not humor. Not even contempt. Just scalpel-clean derision.
“You’re really gonna sleep ten feet away on your own couch? That’s…” Her voice barely rose above a whisper, but it sliced anyway. “Pathetic.”

His jaw flexed. Of course she saw through it. Saw how flimsy, how desperate the boundary was. “It’s a boundary,” he snapped back. “Which brings me to the actual rules.”

He moved, leaning against his desk like he needed structural support. His chest felt tight, but his voice stayed steady. Clear. Authoritative.
“Rule one. In front of anyone who matters—the caseworker, Isha, our friends—we’re a team. A united front. No questions, no hesitation. In here?” He gestured around the bedroom, the walls suddenly claustrophobic. “It’s over. The show stops. We’re roommates. Nothing more.”

Her head tilted, eyes narrowing like she was dissecting him under glass. “Okay,” she said again, flat. Noncommittal.

“Rule two.” He forced the words out, knowing this was the firewall. The one that mattered. “The past is off-limits. We don’t go there. Not the fire. Not Silco. Not… anything else.”

“Not anything else,” she repeated, slow. Testing.

He held her gaze, begging without saying it. His shoulders were locked, his throat dry, but the plea was right there in his eyes. Please don’t press it again. Please don’t detonate me.

For a moment, he thought she’d laugh. Or twist the knife.

She didn’t.

“Fine.” Her voice was flat. Then: “One condition.”

He blinked, thrown. “What?”

Her chin jerked toward the nightstand. “The photo. Goes in a drawer. If the past is off-limits, then it’s all off-limits.”

Checkmate. Clean. Precise. She’d turned his firewall into a mirror, made him give up a piece of his own armor.

His chest ached as his eyes fell on it—the three of them, grinning, whole. Vi’s arm around them. Powder’s manic smile. A softer version of himself. A ghost frozen on glossy paper.

Without a word, he picked it up and slid it into the drawer. The soft thud of it shutting echoed like a gunshot.

“Done.”

She pushed off the doorframe, closing the space until he could smell her—rainwater sharp, citrus tang biting at the air. She extended her hand.

“It’s a deal.”

He stared down at it. The calluses. The faint silvery scars. Her hand was a contract written in survival. For a second, every ghost they’d just banished flickered behind his eyes. Then he clasped it. Firm. Cool. Too familiar, too alien. Not a handshake. A transaction.

“Deal.” His voice came out low, final.

Their hands dropped. The truce hovered, fragile as glass.

He raked a hand through his locs, exhaustion finally hitting like a freight train. “Alright. Next problem.”

Her brow arched. “What now?”

“The lease,” he said, the word a grim punchline. “Caseworker’s not stupid. They gonna want proof we’re actually living together. Both our names. One signature’s not enough.”

Something flickered in her expression—panic, quick and sharp before she buried it under that mask again. “You want me on your lease? You really that desperate for joint financial suicide?”

“You want Isha to stay here?” he shot back. “This is the price.”

Her laugh was humorless, a sharp, broken sound. “Christ, Ekko. You’re just begging me to fuck you over.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he muttered before he could stop himself.

The silence that followed was heavy, lethal. Then she smirked, slow and mean, but her eyes betrayed the smallest flicker of something else—fear.
“Fine,” she said, voice like glass cracking. “I’ll sign your goddamn lease. But when this goes to shit—and it will—you don’t get to say I didn’t warn you.”

He exhaled through his teeth, a bitter sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Noted.”

For one sharp second, neither of them moved. Just two people standing in a room already choking on ghosts and future disasters.

Chapter Text

The lease sat on the counter, crisp and smug. Ekko’s neat engineer handwriting stamped across the top felt like a brand: Ekko Talis.

Jinx stared at it, pen hovering. She didn’t sign Jinx. She signed Powder—the version with a borrowed last name, the one who looked just acceptable enough to pass through the system’s cracks. Powder Fortune. The name felt like a lie in her mouth. The pen dug too deep into the paper, the ink a dark, angry scar.

She shoved the form back across the counter. “Congratulations,” she muttered to the empty space where he’d been standing minutes before. “Guess that makes me Mrs. Joint Financial Suicide.”

The oppressive quiet that followed crawled under her skin, laying eggs in her brain. Ekko was gone—work, errands, who gave a shit—but his silence was a tactical presence, an occupation. The walls felt closer. She was losing her goddamn mind.

Her eyes landed on Isha. The kid was a small island of quiet intensity on the floor, her hair a tangled, matted mess. A problem. A flaw in the system. And, crucially, a problem with a solution that existed outside the suffocating confines of this apartment.

"Alright, gremlin," Jinx announced, her voice startlingly loud in the tense air. "Field trip. You look like a raccoon that lost a fight with a fan blade."

Isha looked up, her expression as unreadable as ever. Jinx snatched a tablet from the coffee table. "Show me what you want," she commanded, shoving it into the girl's hands. "Two rules: no bald eagles, and if you pick a mullet, I’m legally required to throw you out a window."

Isha's small fingers moved across the screen with solemn grace. After a moment of intense concentration, she held it up. A crude drawing of a girl with wide eyes.

And the hair was a vibrant, electric blue.

A strange, unfamiliar emotion lodged itself in Jinx's throat. It felt suspiciously like being flattered. The kid didn’t just want a haircut. She wanted a team jersey.

"...Alright, kid," Jinx said, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across her face. "You wanna join the cult? Let’s dye you in."

The salon was a hole-in-the-wall place in the heart of Zaun’s under-lanes, nestled between a noodle-cart depot and a chem-punk tattoo parlor. The air inside was thick with the smell of singed hair, chemical dyes, and the kind of industrial-strength hairspray that could probably stop a bullet. The proprietor, a tough-looking woman with a shaved head that revealed an intricate roadmap of swirling, faded tattoos across her scalp, went by the name of Gert.

“Alright, what’s the damage?” Gert grunted, wiping a straight razor on a leather strap. She had a chipped front tooth and the weary, patient eyes of someone who had seen it all.

Jinx hoisted Isha onto the cracked vinyl of the stylist's chair. "The rat's nest needs to go," she said, holding up the tablet. "And she wants… an upgrade."

Gert squinted at the drawing, then at Isha's tangled brown mop. She let out a low, gravelly chuckle. “Cute. Pain-in-my-ass cute. You know a full dye on a kid this small is a war crime, right?”

“Compromise me,” Jinx said. “But make it count.”

An hour later, Isha’s hair was a masterpiece of controlled chaos. Gert had tamed the tangled mess into a sharp, practical, asymmetrical cut that was still edgy as hell. And woven through the dark brown, like veins of pure, rebellious energy, were two subtle, expertly-placed highlights of the most vibrant, electric blue Jinx had ever seen.

Isha was staring at her own reflection in the cracked mirror, her dark eyes wide. She reached up a small hand and tentatively touched one of the blue streaks, a look of profound, silent awe on her face. The corner of her mouth twitched. A ghost of a smile.

Jinx felt that same weird, warm feeling in her chest again. She hated it. She immediately crushed it. "Looks good, kid," she said, trying to sound bored as she paid Gert. “You now officially look like someone who might be housebroken.”

She was waiting for Gert to count back her change when the salon door chimed. Another customer walked in. A woman, probably Jinx’s age, with a nervous, almost frantic energy and a bright streak of green in her dark hair. She glanced around, and her eyes landed on Isha in the chair, and then on Jinx.

And she froze.

Jinx saw it plain as day. Not a flicker, but a full-body jolt, a gut-punch of pure, unadulterated shock that she quickly tried—and failed—to suppress. The woman’s friendly, open face crumpled for a fraction of a second into something wounded before she quickly schooled it back into a neutral mask.

Okay, Jinx thought, her entire body going rigid. What the fuck is this? Her internal alarms, finely tuned from years of sizing up threats in Silco's world, started to ping softly. She didn't know this woman. But this woman clearly, and with great surprise, recognized her.

The stranger averted her gaze, sitting down in the waiting area and grabbing a magazine with a hand that was trembling slightly. She pretended to be intensely interested in the pages, but Jinx could feel her gaze, furtive and questioning, flicking up every few seconds. She wasn't just another customer. She was an observer. And she was rattled.

When Gert handed Jinx her change, the woman finally stood up, as if she’d spent the last twenty minutes trying to piece together a terrible, confusing puzzle. Her smile was bright, but it was brittle, fragile.

“Sorry,” she said, her voice a little too cheerful, a little too loud. “I didn’t mean to stare. Her hair just… it looks really cool.” She gestured vaguely at Isha’s new blue streaks.

“Thanks,” Jinx said, her voice flat, noncommittal. A clear 'end of conversation.'

But the woman was a raw nerve, unable to let it go. She took a half-step closer, her eyes fixed on Isha with an unnerving, painful intensity.

“You guys look… you look familiar,” she stammered, clearly searching for an opening. “Do you live around here? On the border, maybe?”

Jinx's internal alarm was blaring now. The questions were too specific. Too targeted. “We’re new,” Jinx said, her voice turning to ice.

The woman seemed to finally get the message, or at least pretended to. But as Jinx took Isha’s hand to leave, the woman spoke one last time, her voice dropping, losing all its forced cheerfulness and taking on a strange, wounded tremor.

“Wow,” she murmured, her gaze distant, directed at no one and everyone. “Okay. I guess… that explains a lot.”

The fake cheer drained from the woman's voice. What was left was the flat, quiet sound of a conclusion being drawn. It wasn't a question or an accusation. It was the sound of a lock clicking into place—the sound of someone deciding they knew exactly what they were looking at.

Jinx just stared at her, a hundred warning bells going off in her head. Who was this woman? And what the hell did she think she knew?

She didn’t answer. She just pulled Isha out of the salon, the bell chiming behind them. She could feel the woman's eyes on her back, burning with a new, sharp certainty that felt like a targeting laser.

She didn’t know who that was, or what she wanted.

But she knew one thing for sure. She’d just met fresh collateral damage. And she and Isha had just been mistaken for the bomb.

The Noxian schematics on the laptop screen were a blur of clean lines and logical physics, but the information refused to penetrate the noise in his own head. His sanctuary had been compromised. His focus was a fractured network.

Across the island, the soft, rhythmic scratch of a crayon on paper was the only sound. A constant, low-grade hum of Jinx’s presence from the other room kept his shoulders tight, a fight-or-flight response he couldn't switch off. He glanced over. Isha was a small, still point of concentration, her drawing a simple but clear picture: three stick figures under a lopsided sun. One had a blue squiggle for hair. One had a loc-puff ponytail. The smallest held a stuffed rat. A family.

The scratching stopped. A short, sharp huff of frustration broke the quiet.

He looked up. Isha tapped the banana in the fruit bowl, pointed to her yellow crayon, then to the yellow shirt on the blue-haired stick figure. Correct. But then her finger jabbed insistently at the orange in the bowl, her brow furrowed in anger. She rummaged through her crayon box, the movements growing frantic. Nothing. She looked at him, her expression a mix of desperation and rage, and pointed at the orange again.

The problem was clear: she was trying to color the sun, but she didn't have the right tool. The frustration of being unable to express a simple reality—this is not that—was building in her like a storm.

“You need the orange crayon,” he said softly.

She nodded fiercely, her little body tense. He looked in the box. Yellow, green, blue, black. No orange.

“There isn’t one,” he said, feeling helpless.

Her face crumpled. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. It was the first real crack he’d seen in her composure, and the sight of her frustration—a child unable to color the sun—sent an unexpected pang through his chest.

The failure to connect, the wall of her silence, triggered something deep inside him. A memory not of Jinx, but of a different quiet. The warm, patient quiet of his father. The feel of rough, calloused hands shaping words in the air. A language he hadn't used in two decades. The muscles still remembered. A blueprint he thought had been lost in the fire.

He acted before his engineer’s brain could object.

He held up his hands where she could see them, the movement slow, clumsy with disuse. He shaped his left hand into a loose ‘C’. With his right, he mimed squeezing it, his fingers clenching and unclenching at his chin.

[Orange]

Isha’s eyes went wide. She froze completely, her gaze locked on his hands as if he’d just performed magic.

Then he followed it with another sign, the question feeling both foreign and deeply familiar.

[We will find one later, okay?]

After a beat that stretched into an eternity, she lifted her own small hands. Clumsily, she signed, her movements shaky.

[Yes.]

The word, spoken in the silent, graceful language of his father, hit him with the force of a physical blow. A connection. A clean, logical, successful transfer of data. He felt a slow, unfamiliar warmth spread through his chest and managed a small, genuine smile. He signed again, a little less clumsy this time.

[Good.]

The guest room door swung open with a sharp creak.

Ekko’s hands dropped to the counter instinctively, a reflex to shield the fragile moment from the oncoming storm.

Jinx stomped into the kitchen, entirely in her own world. She wore an oil-stained t-shirt and boxer shorts, muttering to herself, “—out of caffeine, which is a hate crime, I’m pretty sure…”

She didn't glance at them. She breezed right past, her focus locked on the refrigerator. The chaotic energy of her mission—find sustenance now—made her completely oblivious to the silent, momentous event that had just occurred mere feet away.

She yanked the fridge door open, grabbed a half-empty can of an energy drink, and slammed it shut. Then, without breaking stride or acknowledging their existence, she turned and marched back to her room, the door clicking shut behind her.

The intrusion was over as quickly as it began.

Ekko slowly lifted his head and looked at Isha. The tension had left her shoulders. She looked back at him, a flicker of understanding in her dark eyes. He had seen her. He had understood.

The apartment was silent again. The quiet that followed was a relief, but a hollow one. The space didn’t feel like his own anymore. It was haunted by her lingering presence—the single, dirty mug she’d left by the sink as an act of casual defiance.

He couldn't focus. He pushed back from the island. The warmth of that small victory was already being suffocated by the tension of Jinx's inevitable return. He needed a clean room. A sterile environment. He needed to get out

Twenty minutes later, he was sitting in a Starbucks on the Piltovan border, and sipped on an americano, no sugar, no syrup, with a splash of oat milk.

It was an aggressively modern bubble of order. The air smelled of coffee and sugar, a soulless jazz track looped endlessly. It was perfect. Predictable. A controlled system. He grabbed a small table in the corner, set up his laptop, and for the first time all day, felt the frantic thrumming in his chest begin to slow.

Before he could lose himself in the work, however, he had to deal with the other piece of shrapnel from the last few days. He pulled out his phone. The notification bubble from Vi was still there, a silent, blinking accusation. He’d ignored it for the past three days, a monument to his own cowardice. He couldn't put it off any longer. Lying to a friend face-to-face was one thing, but ghosting Vi was another level of shitty he wasn’t prepared to sink to. Not yet.

He tapped open their message thread, his thumb hovering over the keypad. What the hell was he supposed to say? 'Hey Vi, sorry for the radio silence, I’ve been busy accidentally assembling a fake family with your unpredictable sister - the one who's conveniently back after 8 years of being a ghost - how's the engagement party planning?'

He sighed and settled for something vaguely plausible, a carefully engineered lie of omission.

[Ekko, 12:17 PM]

Hey Vi. Sorry for going dark. Been a crazy couple of weeks. Yeah, Cait mentioned you were asking. Let’s definitely grab a drink. Things have been… complicated. A lot has happened. How's tomorrow night?

He hit send before he could second-guess it. The message sat there on the screen, a small, blue beacon of his own hypocrisy. The first brick in a wall of lies he was now building between himself and one of the only people left from his old life.

A shadow fell over his table.

Ekko’s head snapped up, his body going rigid. For a wild, irrational second, he thought it was Vi, somehow summoned by his text message.

It wasn't. It was Viktor.

He carried a plain Starbucks cup, steam curling from the lid. No syrup, no foam — just hot black tea, strong and unadorned. The clean, tannic scent cut through the sugar-cloud of caramel and espresso that hung in the shop. As always, he moved with that unsettling, deliberate quiet — like even the air had been warned to make room.

Viktor’s gaze wasn't on him. It was fixed, with sharp, analytical intensity, on the laptop screen, where the Noxian schematics were still displayed.

“Ambitious,” Viktor observed, his voice a low, thoughtful rumble. “But your proposed solution for the primary coolant system…” He gestured with his mug toward a specific diagram. “...creates a significant thermal bottleneck. An unnecessary point of failure.” He took a slow sip of his tea, his eyes still on the screen. “Unusual for you. Your designs are normally more elegant.”

He finally looked up, his gaze moving from the laptop to Ekko’s face. His pale, impossibly perceptive eyes did a slow, clinical scan. Ekko felt like a machine undergoing a diagnostic.

“I’m just working through some early concepts,” Ekko said, the words feeling weak, defensive. He closed the laptop, a gut reaction to hide the flawed evidence of his own distraction.

Viktor’s gaze followed the movement, his expression unchanging. He took another long, slow sip of his tea. “Fatigue compromises a system’s integrity,” he murmured, his gaze distant now, as if contemplating a universal, immutable law of physics. “Even a well-designed one.”

He gave a single, slow nod, as if Ekko's frayed state was just another interesting data point he had now filed away. Then, with the same unnerving quiet he had arrived with, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the lunchtime crowd.

Ekko sat there long after he was gone, his own coffee turning cold and bitter on his tongue. The sterile calm of the coffee shop was gone, his bubble of order pierced by Viktor’s surgical, accurate diagnosis. The work was sloppy. A cascade failure waiting to happen. It was a mirror. A self-portrait. And he didn't like what he saw.

Boy Savior had bolted. Again. No heads-up, no explanation, just—poof. Gone. Fuck him. Good riddance anyway.

Jinx retreated to her workshop—the guest room she had colonized—and slammed the door. The sound was a satisfying bang, a small act of sonic rebellion in the oppressive quiet. The space was a chaotic, beautiful scar on Ekko’s otherwise pristine apartment. Her tools and half-finished projects were strewn across the desk, a fortress of her own making. Ezreal’s overnight bag was shoved into a corner, a silent, glittery testament to their bizarre, new living arrangement. He slept here, but this guest room—the workshop—was hers.

She collapsed onto Ezreal's unmade bed, staring up at a ceiling that was as blank and unforgiving as her future. The tense, polite interaction with the green haired woman at the salon replayed in her head on a continuous, torturous loop. The woman’s wounded, knowing eyes. The way she had seemed to recognize her. 

She felt a desperate, clawing need for an ally. For someone from her world. Someone who spoke her language.

There was only one person. But she had been ghosting her for days.

She pulled out her phone, the screen lighting up her face in the dim room. She opened the message thread from Lux 💖. It was a minefield of increasingly frantic, unanswered texts that made her wince.

[Lux 💖, 5 days ago]

BITCH. Did u bang him or not? lmk 🫠

[Lux 💖,3 days ago]

babe if you ghost me for one more day I will literally fake my own death😤

[Lux 💖, 3 days ago]

also?? what the HELL happened with you and Ekko 👀 I need the tea, the transcript, and the deleted scenes rn

[Lux 💖, 3 days ago]

bitch if you don’t answer me soon I’m breaking into your apartment 😤😤

Jinx winced. She took a deep, fortifying breath, her fingers hovering over the screen. This was going to be messy. There was no way to explain the cascading series of life-altering disasters that had occurred since Lux’s party without sounding completely, certifiably insane. Which, to be fair, was probably accurate. She started typing, her thumbs a blur of chaotic, unfiltered confession.

[Jinx, 6:15 PM]

okay. so. not dead. but might as well be. story is fucking insane and too long to text but short version: did not bang him, almost did, saw a ghost (literal and metaphorical), freaked out, left, almost hit a feral child with my car, had a moral crisis, dumped kid at shelter, then ended up having to fake-date ekko to foster said feral child and am now living in his boring prison of an apartment. so. how was your week?

She hit send, the wall of text looking like the manifesto of a lunatic. She watched the three dots appear instantly, pulsing with what she could only imagine was Lux’s pure, unadulterated shock.

[Lux 💖, 6:16 PM]

...

[Lux 💖, 6:16 PM]

WHAT

[Lux 💖, 6:16 PM]

jinx what the ACTUAL FUCK
I am having a stroke. reading that gave me a stroke.
I need to see this crime scene with my own eyes. what’s the address. I’m bringing pizza and wine and maybe a lawyer.

A wave of profound, bone-deep relief washed over Jinx. It was so intense it almost made her dizzy. Lux didn’t ask questions. She didn’t judge. She just mobilized. Jinx quickly typed out the address, her hands trembling slightly.

[Jinx, 6:17 PM]

It's a code red lux. get the good wine. the expensive kind, not whatever organic, free-range bullshit.

[Lux 💖, 6:17 PM]

omg on my way!! I want to see this mess for myself 😍🍕🍷

Forty minutes later, the doorbell chimed. Jinx flung the door open. Lux stood there, a vision in a violently pink jacket, balancing two giant pizza boxes and a tote bag that clinked with the sound of salvation.

“Reinforcements have arrived!” she announced, breezing past Jinx and into the lion's den.

She stopped and did a slow, dramatic spin, her gaze sweeping across the tense, minimalist apartment and the small, blue-streaked girl on the couch, and her entire face softened. “Wow,” she breathed. “This is even more tragically domestic than I imagined. I love it.”

Then her eyes landed on Isha. She gasped. “Oh my god, Jinx. She’s so cute. She looks like a tiny you!”

Jinx scowled. “Uh-huh. Yeah right, sunshine.”

“I mean it! Look at her—same ‘don’t touch me or I’ll bite’ vibe. It’s uncanny. What’s her name?”

“Isha.”

Lux ditched the bags she was carrying—an instant act of war against Ekko’s sacred no-clutter code—and crouched down to Isha’s level like they’d rehearsed this. “Hi, Isha. I’m Lux.” She fished out her phone with a conspiratorial grin. “Wanna see something?”

The screen lit up with a video of a fat, fluffy kitten attempting a heroic leap off a couch and face-planting into a pile of pillows. Lux giggled under her breath. Jinx watched Isha’s mouth twitch, barely-there, but real enough to feel like someone had slipped a knife between her ribs. Relief tangled with jealousy, tight and bitter in her gut.

And just like that, Lux snapped the phone shut. “So, where’s our war room?”

Jinx jabbed a thumb toward the guest room—currently more of a lab than a guest room.

“Perfect. Debrief time.” Lux hooked an arm through hers and dragged her along without waiting for permission. Over her shoulder, she flashed Isha a blindingly sunny smile. “Back in a sec. Girl talk.”

She dragged Jinx into the room, closing the door behind them. Lux immediately leaned against it, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and profound concern.

“Okay,” she whispered, her voice a frantic hiss of excitement. “Start from the beginning. And do not skip the part where you, Jinx, the person who forgets to water plants until they die, have somehow acquired a small human.”

Jinx collapsed onto Ezreal’s unmade bed, the familiar, comforting mess of her own chaotic tools spread across the desk a small comfort. “It’s a nightmare,” she admitted, and then the floodgates opened. She told her everything. About the past few days with Ekko and Isha. The salon. The weird, probing questions from a stranger.

“…and she was just so… interested. It was creepy. She recognized me, I know she did.” She described the woman. “Kind of her age, dark hair, but with this… bright, almost electric green streak in it. Energetic vibe. Like a hummingbird on shimmer-sticks.”

She saw the look on Lux’s face shift, her usual bubbly sympathy curdling into dawning horror.

“Oh no,” Lux breathed.

“What ‘oh no’?” Jinx demanded, sitting up. “Who is she?”

Lux’s eyes were wide. “Jinx,” she said, her voice dropping to a serious, horrified whisper. “That was Zeri. Ekko’s ex. The one Ezreal said he just, like, catastrophically broke up with a few weeks ago.”

The information landed like a gut punch. It wasn’t a random busybody. It wasn’t a spy. It was her. The recent ex. The collateral damage.

Jinx’s throat went dry. “What happened?” she asked, sharp and low, as if the answer might change everything.

Lux shook her head, frustration tugging at her features. “I don’t know. Ezreal wasn’t… he wasn’t forthcoming with the details. Just said it blew up. Catastrophic, his word, not mine.”

“Oh, fuck,” Jinx whispered. She looked at Lux, a new, desperate urgency in her eyes. "Lux. You can't say anything," she said, her voice a low command. "To anyone. As far as anyone knows, Ekko and I are a real couple. We're fostering Isha. If anyone finds out we're faking, they'll take the kid away." She grabbed Lux's arm. "You have to lie for me. Please."

Lux’s expression hardened with a fierce, protective loyalty. "Of course," she said, her voice firm. "Duh. I'm your best friend. I'll lie to the goddamn FBI for you.” She then sat on the bed beside Jinx, her own energy softening from shock to genuine concern. She nudged Jinx’s knee.

“Okay, but real talk for a sec,” Lux said gently, her eyes full of a worry that Jinx couldn’t deflect. “This is… a lot. Even for you. I mean, a kid, Jinx? A whole, actual child? How are you going to manage that, plus him,” she gestured vaguely at the wall, in the direction of Ekko’s room, “without… you know… setting everything on fire? Metaphorically. Or, knowing you, literally.”

The question hung in the air, simple, direct, and utterly terrifying because it was the same question screaming in the back of Jinx's own mind. How was she going to do this?

Jinx just shrugged, a jerky, defensive motion. She picked at a loose thread on Ezreal’s comforter. “I’ll handle it,” she said, the words a flimsy shield. “I’m good at handling things.” A lie. She was good at breaking things. Handling them was a different story.

Lux wasn't buying it. She leaned in a little closer, her voice dropping even lower, more conspiratorial, more serious. “And what happens when this whole fake-dating thing stops being fake?”

Jinx froze, her fingers stilling on the thread. "What are you talking about?"

“Oh, please,” Lux scoffed, but there was no malice in it, only a deep, knowing fondness. “I was there at my party. I saw the way you two were looking at each other. It was like a whole goddamn lightning storm in the middle of my living room. You two have more unresolved sexual tension than the season two finale cliffhanger of Severance.”

She paused, her gaze turning impossibly soft. “What happens if this turns into… a situationship? What happens if someone, you know… catches feelings?”

The phrase hit Jinx like a physical blow. Catches feelings. The very concept was anathema to her, a foreign, dangerous disease. Her entire life had been a masterclass in cauterizing feelings before they could get infected. The thought of it, of her, in this fake, fragile arrangement, with him… it was absurd. It was impossible. It was the most terrifying thing Lux could have possibly said.

A loud, sharp laugh burst from her chest, a sound that was more panic than humor.

“Feelings?” she repeated, the word tasting like poison in her mouth.

She shook her head, a wide, manic grin spreading across her face. “Yeah, file that under ‘never gonna happen.’, Luxy. The day I catch feelings for that overgrown, emotionally constipated Boy Scout is the day I trade in my boots for a pair of kitten heels and start enjoying Piltovan chamber music.”

Jinx stood up, needing to move, to put distance between herself and the horrifying possibility. “It’s a business arrangement. A six-month contract. And then we’re done. Clean cut.”

Lux just watched her, her expression unconvinced but wise enough not to push it. She stood up too. “Okay,” she said, her voice light again. “If you say so.” But her eyes said, 'I'll be here to pick up the pieces.'

“Now, let’s go destroy that pizza and get drunk,” Lux said, linking her arm through Jinx's.

They walked out of the room, Jinx’s laughter still echoing a little too loudly in her own ears. 

It was a business arrangement. That's all. And she would be fine. 

She was in complete control.

She was so, so fucked.

An hour later, Jinx had tucked Isha into Ezreal’s old room—an act of domesticity that felt as foreign and ill-fitting as a straitjacket. Lux was already at the door, pulling on her violently pink jacket.

"Okay, I have to go before your broody, fake-not-fake boyfriend makes a cameo and the sheer weight of unresolved sexual tension implodes the building," Lux said, pulling Jinx into a fierce hug that smelled like pizza and expensive wine. "Call me. Text me. Burn a signal fire. Anytime. For anything."

Jinx walked her to the front door, the apartment’s oppressive quiet a stark contrast to Lux’s vibrant chaos. She pulled the door open, a final, whispered "Thanks" on her lips—and they both froze.

Ezreal stood in the hallway, key poised at the lock, looking like he’d just stepped out of a photoshoot for a magazine called Smug & Well-Moisturized. He stopped cold. His eyes widened as they landed on Lux, and a slow, appreciative grin spread across his face like a sunrise.

“Luxanna Crownguard,” he declared, his voice low. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Did you sense a disturbance in the ‘hot and emotionally complicated’ quadrant of the city?”

Lux rolled her eyes, but a genuine, amused smile played on her lips. “Ezreal,” she said. “I was just visiting Jinx. I see you're still the apartment's resident peacock.”

“I prefer ‘strategic relocation for the betterment of the domestic narrative,’" he said smoothly, leaning against the opposite wall, his gaze fixed on her. “My new quarters are quite lovely. You should come see them sometime.”

The flirtation was so shameless, so overt, that Jinx almost gagged.

Lux just laughed, a bright, musical sound. “Careful, Ez. I might just take you up on that.”

She gave Jinx a final, knowing wink—a shared glance between co-conspirators now—before turning and heading for the elevator. Ezreal watched her go, a completely unsubtle, smitten look on his face.

He turned to Jinx, a grin plastered across his face. "So," he said, sauntering past her into the apartment. "Pizza, huh? Did you save me a slice?"

Jinx just stared after him, then back down the empty hallway. The cage had just gotten a hell of a lot more complicated. And the number of people rattling the bars was growing.

Ezreal sauntered into the apartment, leaving Jinx alone in the hallway to process the aftershock of Lux's departure and their flirty exchange. She closed the front door, the click of the lock feeling unnervingly final. She found Ezreal in the kitchen, already helping himself to a cold slice of the pizza she and Lux had abandoned.

"So," he said, mouth full of half-chewed evidence. “tonight’s episode recap: our tragically blue-haired anti-heroine hosts a late-night summit with her sparkly bestie to roast the emotionally constipated broody male lead. And then, yours truly makes a surprise guest appearance. The ratings? Unprecedented.”

Jinx glared at him. "Do you ever shut the hell up?"

"Rarely," he replied cheerfully. "It's one of my best qualities. Builds suspense." He took another massive bite of pizza. "So, is Lover Boy moping in his room? Did you two have another emotionally charged standoff that I tragically missed?"

"Fat chance. He's not here," she said, her voice flat. She grabbed a cigarette from the pack in her jacket pocket, her hands needing something to do. "I'm going for a smoke."

She slid open the balcony door and stepped out into the cool, sharp air. The city sprawled below them, a glittering, chaotic tapestry of light and shadow. A moment later, the door slid open again, and Ezreal followed her out, leaning against the railing beside her. He held up his slice of pizza.

"My emotional support slice," he explained.

She took a slow drag of her cigarette, the cherry glowing like a distant warning light. The silence stretched for a beat—just the low hum of the city, a machine that never slept. An opening. A target of opportunity. Time to run a play. Silco’s voice, a ghost in her memory: Find the leverage, or make your own.

“Lux told me something… interesting tonight,” she began, her tone deceptively casual as she blew a stream of smoke into the darkness.

“That I’m the unsung sex symbol of Piltover?” Ezreal asked. ”Bold of her to admit it aloud, but not untrue.”

Jinx ignored him. The casual mask was everything. “She told me about Ekko’s ex. Zeri.” She watched him, waiting for a crack in the facade. His cheerful posture didn’t shift, but she saw it—a flicker of caution in his eyes. A sudden, calculated alertness.

"Ah," he said, taking another meticulous bite. “The ghost of girlfriends past. A tragic, if narratively convenient, loss.”

"Convenient how?" she pressed, keeping her voice even. "What happened?"

"Mmhmm," Ezreal hummed, his attention apparently focused entirely on his crust. He was stonewalling her. That smug bastard

She pivoted. “It’s just weird, y’know?” Flick. Ash spiraled off the edge. “Ekko walking around like he’s one wrong song away from a brooding montage. All that angsty ‘I’m fine’ shit. You’d think he’d be out there blowing off steam. Or at least trying to get laid.”

Ezreal finally turned to look at her, his eyes twinkling with a dangerous, amused light. "Oh, sweetheart," he said, his voice dripping with mock-pity. "I see what this is. Classic ‘extract intel by casual banter.’ Textbook.”

Jinx bristled. “I’m not—”

“You are.” His hand landed on her shoulder in a patronizing little pat, like she was some intern screwing up coffee orders.

"Look, I love drama more than I love myself, but my loyalty to Ekko—while frequently tested by his depressing taste in music and offensively healthy eating habits—is surprisingly robust. If you want the gory details of his tragic little heart, you’re going to have to do the one thing you are constitutionally incapable of doing." 

He leaned in, his grin pure, infuriating poison. "You're going to have to use your words. Open that little grenade-proof lockbox you call a heart, sit him down, and have a direct, non-combative, feelings-based conversation where nobody gets metaphorically stabbed." 

He paused, savoring it. “Or, y’know. Just fuck it out of him. Honestly? That’s probably your best shot.”

The absolute audacity of the remark almost made her laugh. She felt a grudging, resentful flicker of respect. Fine. Time for the nuclear option.

“Okay, you know what?” she said, taking a final drag from her cigarette and flicking it out into the night, a dying red ember swallowed by the darkness. She turned to him, a sweet, generous, utterly fake smile plastered on her face. 

"You’re right. My bad. In fact, to make it up to you for even trying to put you in the middle of this mess... you can have the Airbnb."

Ezreal froze mid-chew.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice like honey. “That luxury apartment I’m in? The one with the rooftop infinity pool and the industrial-grade Nespresso machine? I haven't cancelled the rental. It’s paid up for another three months. It’s all yours. No more crashing on that sad little guest bed. Be. Free.”

She watched his face, waiting for the greed, the self-interest, the logical escape he couldn't possibly refuse.

He chewed slowly, thoughtfully. An agonizing beat passed. He looked out at the city, then back at her, and then he let out a loud, genuine peal of laughter.

“Oh, that is good,” he said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “That is really good. Bribery. Direct. I respect the hustle.”

“So, we have a deal?” she drawled, feeling the sweet, intoxicating rush of control.

He shook his head, still chuckling. "No deal," he said, taking a final, triumphant bite of his pizza slice.

Jinx stared at him, completely thrown. "What? Why not? It’s a goddamn luxury apartment with an industrial-grade Nespresso machine!"

Ezreal looked at her, his expression one of pure, unadulterated bliss. "My dear, sweet, chaos-loving roommate," he said, his voice full of a terrible, joyful sincerity. "A luxury apartment is a rental. But the high-quality, front-row, season-pass ticket to the most gloriously dysfunctional, emotionally charged, slow-motion train wreck of a romance I have ever had the pleasure of witnessing?" 

He gestured grandly at the apartment behind them. 

"That is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And I am not giving up my seat for anything."

Jinx narrowed her eyes and flipped him off with lazy precision. “If you weren’t Ekko’s best friend, pretty boy, I’d have shoved you off this balcony just to see if you landed on your hair or your ass.”

Ezreal smirked like she’d just complimented him.

With a final, devastating wink, he turned and went back inside.

The balcony door slid shut, leaving Jinx alone in the sudden, ringing silence.

It wasn’t just a refusal. It was a diagnosis. 

He hadn't just rejected her offer; he'd framed her life, her pain, her entire chaotic existence, as entertainment. A train wreck worth watching. The phrase hit an old, raw nerve, echoing words she’d overheard a lifetime ago.

Now the cage didn’t just feel smaller. It had an audience.

Chapter Text

The apartment was beginning to feel less like a home and more like a besieged outpost. Four days since Jinx and Isha had moved in, and the walls already seemed to hum with static — every silence carrying the weight of unasked questions and unacknowledged history.

He had to get out.

The buzz of his phone offered him a perfect excuse. A new message lit up the screen:

[Vi, 2:17 PM]

8 p.m. sharp. Same bar as always. 

Short, clipped, efficient. Classic Vi.

[Ekko, 2:18 PM]

Sounds good

Ekko exhaled, thumb hovering over the reply before pressing send.

He knew he was probably going to get grilled for being a ghost for the past few weeks, but even that felt preferable to an evening marinating in the apartment’s thick, unspoken tension.

The bar hadn’t changed. Still a cracked concrete floor, still that busted light over the jukebox that flickered like a dying nerve. They used to come here when they were young and stupid enough to think grime meant grit—like peeling paint and sticky booths gave a place character instead of just rot. The air reeked of old beer and older decisions. And underneath it all, that low, metallic sting of Zaun’s recycled chem-fumes bleeding through the vents.

Neutral ground.

A place that didn’t belong to anyone. Not Piltover. Not the streets. Not the past.

Just a place where ghosts could sit down and pretend not to recognize each other.

Vi was already there, hunched over a rocks glass at a rickety corner table, swirling the last of the amber liquid. She looked up when he arrived, her expression a strange mix of excited and deeply stressed, and a genuine, relieved smile broke through her tough exterior.

As he reached the table, she pushed to her feet and met him halfway. Before he could even slide into the booth, her hands were on him—cupping the back of his head, fingers lacing through his locs with a familiar, easy intimacy. She pulled him forward into a rough, grounding hug, her forehead pressing against his for a brief, solid second. A gesture of pure, uncomplicated affection that felt like it was from another lifetime.

She released him with a firm clap on the shoulder. "Your turn to buy."

He nodded, a small smile touching his lips as he headed to the bar. "Two Jamesons, neat," he told the bartender, who slid the glasses over without comment. He returned, setting one in front of her as he slid onto the bench. Their ritual. Their bullshit-free zone.

Vi raised her glass. "Thanks for coming. I'm... I'm kinda freaking out."

He took a slow sip, the burn familiar and grounding. "Freaking out? You don't 'freak out.' You punch things."

"Yeah, well, you can't punch floral arrangements," she grumbled, taking a long drink. "Listen, I'll just get straight to it. Cait's already locked in Jayce as her 'man of honor' and she just asked that Sarah chick to be her maid of honor."

Ekko blinked. "Sarah? As in, Abigail Fortune’s daughter?"

"Apparently, they were childhood friends before... you know. Everything," Vi said, waving a dismissive hand. "Point is, she's got her crew. And I need mine." She looked at him, her eyes shining with a rare, vulnerable sincerity that made his own carefully constructed walls feel flimsy. "I want you to be my best man, Ekko."

He was completely stunned. "Me? Vi, I..."

"You're my brother," she said, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "You, me, Powder. We were it. You're the only one left who... who was there. For the before part." Her expression darkened slightly, the brief flicker of joy extinguished by a familiar, frustrated pain. "Which brings me to part two of my goddamn headache."

She leaned forward, her voice dropping. "Powder. She's ghosting my texts. Again. But I ran into her at the mall a few days ago. She looked... I don't know. Like a walking, talking vault with a new paint job." She shook her head, swirling the whiskey in her glass. "I want her to come to the brunch. I want to ask her to be a maid of honor, with you. The two of you. Like it's supposed to be."

Ekko’s stomach turned. Not from the idea — he wanted it too, in some distant, idealized version of reality — but from how far removed they were from that version now.

A fake relationship, a co-parenting lie, a pile of history too sharp to touch bare-handed.

And Vi, sitting there like they could just patch it all together with brunch invites and matching floral arrangements.

A flicker of desperate hope shone in her eyes. "Remember when she was getting better? After Silco… after everything almost went to shit." Her voice became distant, grasping at a timeline that had shattered. "When Abigail took her in? That was supposed to be it, you know? She sent her to Bilgewater, got her finishing her education. She was doing good, building things again, real things. Brilliant things."

Ekko’s throat felt tight. He just nodded, the whiskey suddenly tasting bitter.

"And then she came back," Vi continued, her voice gaining a fragile momentum. "Piltover Academy. She was here, in the same city. She was pulling herself out of it. And then she just… vanished. Not a word. Eight years." She looked at him, her gaze raw. "I have to try, right? She's my sister."

He was sitting on a mountain of secrets. "Yeah, Vi," he managed to say, the words feeling like a betrayal. "You have to try."

"Right." She took another sip, collecting herself. The whiskey seemed to sharpen her focus. "Anyway, enough about my drama. What about you? How's Zeri? We haven't seen you guys in ages."

And there it was. The landmine. He felt a jolt of cold panic.

"Uh... Zeri and I, we're not together anymore," he managed to say.

Vi's eyes widened. "Not together anymore? Shit, man. What the hell happened? And since when?"

"It’s been a few weeks now…” He trailed off mumbling. “It just wasn’t working - we weren’t on the same page on certain stuff " 

She nodded and was silent for a moment, the cogs in her sharp, cop-like mind probably turning. "A few weeks," she repeated slowly. She leaned forward again, her gaze sharpening, becoming suspicious. "Okay, so let me get this straight. Powder went ghost for eight years, right after she disappeared from the Academy. And now she just so happens to reappear in Zaun at the exact same time you suddenly become single." Her eyes narrowed. "Don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining, Ekko. You two aren't... talking, are you?"

He had to deploy the official story. Now. “We, uh… we ran into each other almost a week ago,” he said, forcing his voice to remain steady. “At Lux’s party.”

Vi's jaw actually dropped. "You're kidding me. She was at Lux's party?" The idea baffled her. Her expression hardened, a new, protective suspicion taking over. "Okay. Wow. So, you're fresh off a breakup, and the first thing you do is run back to my emotionally volatile, walking hand-grenade of a sister? Am I getting that right?"

"It's not what you think," he said, his defenses crumbling.

“What I think,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet now, “is that you’re playing with fire, Ekko. I thought you were smarter than that.” 

His jaw tightened. “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t been telling myself the same shit on a loop?”

A beat. 

“After everything we went through to survive?” she said, voice low and steady. “I’m not gonna sit here and play pretend—like we’re fixed, like it’s all hugs and fucking kumbaya—while the whole thing burns down again.” She shook her head, slow and final, the kind of disappointment that didn’t need to raise its voice. It landed heavier than any punch she could’ve thrown.

He leaned forward, voice low but cutting. “You think I want this to blow up? I’m not reckless. Not anymore. I’m trying to hold it together, Vi, but it’s not that simple.”

She downed the last of her Jameson in one sharp motion and slammed the empty glass onto the table with a crack. The conversation was over. 

"Look," she said, her voice losing its anger, replaced by a weary exhaustion that was somehow worse. "I don’t know what kind of mess you two are tangled up in. But she’s my sister. If you’re spiraling, fine. Do it on your own time. Don’t make her pay for it.”

He exhaled sharply, eyes flashing. “You think I’d ever use her as collateral for my shit? I’ve spent half my life trying to clean up the wreckage she carries around. I’m not the one dragging her under—I’m the one trying to pull her up.”

"Right." She stood up, her gaze pinning him to the sticky vinyl of the booth. “Whatever this is, Ekko… don’t fuck it up. And don't you dare hurt her.”

The words hit harder than any punch she’d ever thrown. But it was what came next that really gutted him.

“This doesn’t change how I feel about you,” she said, quieter now. “You’re still my brother. Always have been. Always will be.”

His throat tightened. He wanted to say you don’t know the half of it, but the words jammed in his chest. “...I don’t want to hurt her, Vi. I never did. I never will.”

She paused, long enough for the silence to sting.

“But if she walks away from this worse off?” Her gaze didn’t waver. “I will hold you accountable.”

Her hand came down heavy on his shoulder, not gentle, but steady — the kind of weight that said both I’ve got you and don’t make me regret this.

Then she turned and walked out, boots echoing against the floor.

Ekko sat there in the silence she left behind.

Then he reached for his glass and finished the rest of his Jameson in one long, burning swallow.

He sat there long after she was gone, the ghost of her warning hanging in the stale air.

He returned to the apartment an hour later, feeling like he'd been put through a grinder. He walked down the hall and was intercepted by a shadow detaching from the wall. Ezreal.

“Party’s over,” he said, voice low and oddly serious, blocking Ekko’s path like this was an ambush and not his own damn hallway. “Shit got real.”

Ekko blinked at him. “What?”

Ezreal’s arms folded. The glitter was gone from his tone.

“I need the script.”

“The script,” Ezreal repeated, eyes narrowed with theatrical urgency. “The official story. Because I just got hit with a barrage of suspiciously well-worded texts from one Luxana Crownguard regarding your sudden ‘girlfriend’ and conveniently timed ‘daughter.’”

Ekko groaned. “You didn’t—”

“Oh, I performed. Beautifully,” Ezrail said, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder. “Improvised like my rent depended on it—which, given our current electricity bill, it might. But I’m gonna need more than vibes moving forward. What’s my role in this play? Am I the goofy best friend who helped plan the whole thing? Or the stunned but supportive roommate processing this whirlwind romance in real time?”

He leaned in, voice lowering. “Give me my lines, Ekko. The curtain’s up, and I refuse to ad-lib my way through Act Two.”

The sheer, insane absurdity of the situation almost made him laugh. He leaned against the opposite wall, the weariness hitting him like a physical blow as he laid out the lie in plain, stark terms. “We're a real couple. We reconnected at the party. It got serious, fast. Isha is… complicated, but she’s ours now. That's the story. That's what you say to everyone. Lux. Vi. Your parents. The guy at the bodega who sells you mango-flavored vape pods. Everyone.”

Ezreal listened, his head tilted. A long, slow whistle escaped his lips. “Wow,” he murmured. “You’ve really, truly gone and done it this time.”

He pushed off the wall, his usual triumphant grin absent. His expression was something more complicated.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m in. I’ll be the most stunned and supportive roommate anyone’s ever seen. I’ll gasp. I’ll clutch pearls. I’ll cry if I have to.” 

He then paused, his gaze turning serious.

“But just so we’re clear,” Ezreal said, his voice lowering like he was slipping out of costume for a second, “you need to be careful.”

He jerked his chin toward the guest room. The mood shifted.

“Her? She’s not playing the same game as the rest of us. She’s got the whole board flipped sideways and the rules rewritten in crayon. You think you’re building a fortress here?” He looked Ekko dead in the eye. “She’s already diagrammed the cracks in the foundation—and started running wire through them.”

Ekko swallowed, jaw tightening. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I know how stupid-smart she is.”

“Good,” Ezreal said simply, no grin this time. He started to turn away, but something caught in his posture. A stutter-step of hesitation. A thought still loaded.

He glanced back, eyes a little too clear now. “And hey,” he added, his voice even lower, dropping all pretense of a joke. “Real talk. One more thing. You need to tell her about Zeri.”

Ekko went rigid. "What? Why?"

Ezreal gave him a look that was a mixture of pity and profound exasperation. “Because, you beautiful, emotionally constipated idiot, the truth has a funny way of coming out at the worst possible time. And Zeri is not a secret that’s going to stay buried. You think Jinx won’t find out? From Lux? From a random goddamn Instagram story? You need to get out ahead of it. Control the narrative. It’s Crisis Management 101.”

He poked Ekko in the chest, his expression dead serious. “Rip the bandage off. Tell her you just got out of something messy. It makes your whole ‘whirlwind romance’ story more believable, and it stops the Zeri bomb from detonating in your faces at the worst possible moment. Trust me on this.”

Ezreal paused, gaze tightening. “Look, you know me—I’m a fiend for drama. Peak spectacle, emotional messes, all of it. But your success? Your shot at something real?” His voice dropped. “That matters more. So lock in. Don’t fuck this one up...”

A beat. Then, with a smile that was far too pleasant:

“Or I’ll have no choice but to sit back, pop popcorn, and enjoy the trainwreck.”

Before Ekko could process the terrifyingly sound advice—and the not-so-veiled threat buried underneath it—Ezreal’s whole posture shifted. The glittery mask of chaos slid smoothly back into place, like it had never slipped at all.

“Anyway!” he chirped, his grin returning. “My services as a co-conspirator are not cheap. You owe me. Big time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a tragically handsome roommate to embody.”

With a final, theatrical spin, he disappeared down the hall like he hadn’t just handed Ekko a live grenade wrapped in glitter.

Ekko stood there, hollowed out.

Vi’s warning was still ringing in one ear. Now Ezreal’s crisis protocol was screaming in the other.

Tell Jinx?

Voluntarily expose a fresh wound to the person most likely to pour salt in it?

Not a fucking chance.

He felt like a man walking into a chess match against two grandmasters—and realizing his own teammate had just suggested he sacrifice his queen.

And maybe he was right.

Which made it worse.

The Boy Savior returned from wherever he’d escaped to well after dark.

Jinx watched him from the shadows of her workshop’s doorway as he walked in. He looked… wrecked. The usual, rigid control in his posture—that infuriating, pragmatic perfectionism—was gone, replaced by a weary, hollowed-out exhaustion that seemed to radiate from his bones. His shoulders were slumped, his expression closed off and grim.

Whatever he’d been doing, it had clearly put him through the wringer. A small, vicious part of her, the part Silco had carefully nurtured, was pleased. Good. Let him feel a fraction of the pressure she was under. Let his perfect, ordered world show some cracks.

She listened as he was intercepted in the hallway by Ezreal. She couldn’t hear all the words, just the low, serious murmur of their voices. It wasn't their usual witty, chaotic banter.

This was probably a strategy session. A war council.

He was bringing his people in, reinforcing his side of the board.

The thought made her feel a sharp, cold pang of isolation. Her only ally was Lux, a co-conspirator enlisted via a frantic series of texts and now gone for the night. His was right here, in the fortress, an informant and lieutenant living on her turf.

He disappeared into his room—their room—and the door clicked shut. The cold war had officially resumed.

She stayed in her workshop, surrounded by the comforting, metallic scent of solder and oil. Her mind was a hornet’s nest, buzzing with the events of the last few days.

Zeri.

Lux’s warning. Ekko's ex. It was a landmine she couldn’t stop circling. Was this it? Was the wreckage on his face about her? The possibility didn't feel like a victory. It felt like a tightening wire, another complication in a setup already designed to strangle her.

Her phone buzzed on the desk, a sharp, intrusive vibration against the wood. She glanced at the screen, and her stomach clenched.

[Lux 💖, 9:14 PM]

OMG Vi just texted ME asking if u and Ekko are a thing bc Caitlyn told her he broke up with Zeri and has been seen with YOU at my party!! The web is weaving itself girlie! 😱 I told her you guys looked SO cute and happy at my party and that you deserve it!! Planted the seed! You’re welcome 😉❤️

Jinx stared at the text, the words blurring into a neon-pink nightmare. You’re welcome. Lux, in her earnest, bubbly attempt to be a good co-conspirator, had just poured gasoline on a simmering fire. Now Vi wasn't just suspicious; she was actively investigating, pulling on threads that would lead directly back to this fragile, explosive lie. Great. Another layer of performance demanded, another angle she had to watch.

She locked the screen without replying, the message burning a hole in her thoughts.

The silence from the rest of the apartment began to grate on her again. It felt unnatural. Calculated. She finally pushed her door open, drawn by a shift in the quiet, and crept into the living room like a spy in her own temporary home.

And then she saw them.

They were on the floor by the kitchen island, cast in the soft, low light from the lamp on the counter. Ekko was sitting, his back against the cool grey of the cabinetry, looking just as wrecked and emotionally raw as when he had walked in. And beside him, her small back ramrod straight, was Isha. The chaos of the day, the tension of the apartment, the ghosts of the past—none of it existed in the small, focused bubble they had created.

Isha was holding her tablet, showing him the screen. It was her drawing of an impossible machine, all spiraling gears and chaotic energy conduits. Ekko was leaning in, his expression one of rapt, focused intensity, all his earlier tension seemingly forgotten. He had a pen in his hand and was sketching furiously on a scrap of paper — a receipt, Jinx noted with a smirk. He was… collaborating. He was sharing his language with Isha. Their language. 

A sudden, sharp flash of memory

-

The smell of oil and Vander's cheap cigars in the Last Drop’s basement. The satisfying click of a gear finding its place. His voice, younger, certain, a warm hum beside her ear. “See? Nothing’s broken. It just needs the right blueprint.”

-

Then the memory vanished as Ekko’s hands moved in the present.

Jinx felt her entire body go still as his fingers danced in the air between him and Isha, shaping something she couldn't see. He pointed to his sketch, then to Isha's tablet, and his hands moved again, forming more of the strange, silent symbols.

And Isha's hands moved back.

It wasn't just gestures. It was a secret, silent conversation. A language she didn't know, a code she couldn't crack. An entire world of communication was unfolding in front of her, and she was locked out. The sarcasm, the banter, the verbal grenades she used as armor — all of it was useless here. He was bypassing her defenses completely.

A cold knot tightened in her stomach. Persistence is sexy, she’d joked at the party. But this… this was the quiet, competent, gentle thing she didn't know how to fight. This was him, bypassing all her noise and her chaos and forging a direct, private connection.

How was she supposed to compete with that? What could she offer this kid, other than a shared history of wreckage and two streaks of blue in her hair?

Was this gentle man, the engineer, the one who spoke in quiet signs, real? Or was he a performance, just like everything else?

She didn’t know how long she had been standing there, a statue carved from shadows and a new, unfamiliar strain of jealousy. He must have felt her gaze.

He looked up, his eyes moving past Isha, into the dimness of the living room where she stood. He found her in the dark.

And the world seemed to stop. In his gaze, she didn't see pity.

She didn't see the judgment from their argument over Silco’s tools.

She didn't see the guarded politeness of their cold war.

His eyes were raw, tired, and full of a sad, quiet understanding that she couldn't decipher. He was looking at her as if she was just another complicated, impossible schematic, and he wasn’t trying to solve her. He was just… seeing the design.

It was too much. It was too raw. For a woman whose entire defense mechanism was built on being misunderstood, on being a problem no one could figure out, that look of pure, unguarded recognition was a physical threat. Her fight-or-flight instincts screamed at her.

She turned without a word and retreated.

Not to her workshop.

Not to the barricade of her tools.

She moved down the opposite hall, toward the main bathroom. She needed something else. The sharp, obliterating heat of a shower.

A way to wash off the feeling of being seen.

A way to reset the board.

As she closed the bathroom door behind her, the soft click echoing in the tense silence, she could feel his gaze on her back the entire time.

The girl he used to call Pow retreated, a shadow disappearing down the hall.

The soft click of the bathroom door shutting was a final, severing sound, and the fragile bridge of their shared glance retracted, leaving him alone on his side of the chasm.

Ekko was left on the floor, the crumpled napkin with its gear-train schematic feeling flimsy and ridiculous in his hand. The conversation with Vi was a bitter, metallic taste in the back of his throat. He looked down at Isha, who was still watching the hallway where Jinx had been, her expression unreadable. The sound of a shower starting down the hall did nothing to break the tension.

"Alright," he murmured, his voice feeling rough in the quiet room. "Bedtime."

He walked Isha to her room—Ezreal's old room—and tucked her in. She seemed smaller in the oversized bed, a tiny, silent island in a sea of gray linen. He was about to leave, to retreat to the guaranteed discomfort of the couch in his own room, when a small hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

He turned. Isha was looking at him, her dark eyes wide and full of a serious, focused intensity. Her other hand moved, shaping the words in the dim light from the hallway.

[STORY?] she signed.

Ekko felt a faint, tired smile touch his lips. "Yeah, I guess," he said, settling onto the edge of the bed. "There's probably a book around here somewhere..."

She shook her head, her expression insistent. Her hands moved again, slower this time, more deliberate.

[STORY. YOU. JINX.]

The smile vanished from his face. He felt the air go still in his lungs. "Us?" he asked, his voice a low croak.

She nodded. And then, with the devastating, clinical precision of a tiny intelligence agent, she signed the questions.

[WHY NO KISS?] She pointed from her own lips to the space between where a couple might sit. Then she added another, equally sharp question. [WHY... SEPARATE BED?]

He was completely and utterly floored. He just stared at her, this small, silent girl who saw everything, who missed nothing. She wasn’t just watching their cold war unfold from the sidelines; she’d been running diagnostics the whole time, and now she was calmly pointing at the structural failures they were too cowardly to name.

He signed it back slowly, the gesture stiff, like his hands knew the truth but were embarrassed to admit it out loud.

[COMPLICATED.]

One word. Massive understatement. Pathetic, really. Like slapping a duct-tape label on a live grenade and pretending it wasn’t already hissing.

Her expression didn't change. She just waited, expectant. He couldn't just leave. He couldn't lie. But the truth was a minefield. So he did what he always did when faced with an unsolvable emotional problem: he retreated to the past, to the part that was simpler. The part that was still clean.

"Okay," he sighed, settling back against the headboard. His voice was a low murmur in the quiet room. "Okay. A story."

"A long time ago... before any of the... before everything. There was a girl. And she was all... sparks and sharp edges. A beautiful, brilliant, chaotic machine. And there was a boy. And he was… a mechanic. And all he wanted to do was figure out how she worked."

-

He was eleven.

She was ten.

They were in the Last Drop’s basement, a treasure trove of discarded tech and forgotten junk. She held up a busted chronometer, its gears stripped. “It’s broken,” she’d said. “Vander says it’s trash.”

He’d taken it from her. “Nothing’s broken,” he’d murmured, already seeing the potential in the wreckage. “It’s just waiting for the right parts.”

He’d spent the next three hours showing her how to recalibrate the springs, how to polish the scratched glass with grease and a soft rag.

When they were done, the second hand ticked with a weak but steady rhythm. He’d never forget the look on her face.

Not of thanks. Of awe.

A shared, sacred moment of making something work again…

-

He trailed off, his voice thick with a nostalgia so sharp it was a physical ache.

He looked down. Isha's breathing had deepened into a soft, steady rhythm. Her eyes were closed. She was fast asleep.

He'd been telling the story to himself.

He gently disentangled himself from the bed, his movements slow, careful. As he stood up, a flicker of movement from the doorway caught his eye.

His head snapped up.

Jinx was standing there.

Framed in the doorway like a ghost with attitude—steam curling behind her, skin still glistening from the shower. Her hair clung in soaked strands around her face, dark blue and dripping. She was wrapped in a single, too-small white towel that was clutched tightly at her chest. And she was smirking. She’d heard him.

“Telling bedtime stories about how you used to fix my broken toys, huh?” she whispered, her voice a low.

A beat.

She then tilted her head, and her smirk turned predatory. “Kinky.”

The jab landed, exactly as intended.

A jolt went through him — hot and electric — but beneath it was the deep, weary ache from his night out with Vi.

He was so fucking tired of her games.

Still, his voice surfaced before his self-control could drown. Low. Measured. Quiet like the click of a safety before the shot.

“You always do that,” he said, words sliding under her skin like a scalpel. “Take something simple and twist it until it’s sharp enough to cut someone open.”

Her smirk faltered. Just for a beat. A stutter in her mask, barely there—but he caught it. She hadn’t expected him to swing back.

She recalibrated fast. Took a slow step out of the doorway like she owned the oxygen between them, that smug glint sharpening again. The towel hugged her like a battle flag, damp hair clinging to collarbones, and the whole room warped around her scent—soap and static and that wicked, floral thing that was just hers.

She didn’t stop until she was too close.

“Maybe I just know what you’re really fixing,” she challenged, her voice dropping lower, more intimate, more dangerous. She looked at him like a puzzle she was itching to take apart, piece by messy piece. “Is that what I am to you? Still? Just another busted machine you think you can figure out if you just tinker with it long enough?”

His chest tightened. The raw, open wound from his talk with Vi—the sister he had to lie to, the brother he still was—was still bleeding. He didn’t have the energy for a fight. Not this one. All he had left was a sliver of the truth.

He looked at her, his gaze steady, devoid of the anger she was trying to provoke. It was just tired. Raw.

“No, Jinx,” he said, the words feeling heavy in his mouth. “I wasn’t remembering the broken parts.”

He took a half-step back, needing the space, needing air.

“I was just… remembering when we built things. Together.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Before we started breaking them.”

Silence fell hard. Not the weaponized kind she used to end conversations. This one was different. Heavy. Honest. Almost tender.

She just stared at him, frozen. No quip. No teeth. No comeback.

For a second—a single, stuttering heartbeat—she looked exactly like the girl he used to know. The one who used to sit cross-legged on his floor, goggles slipping down her nose, grease in her hair and blueprints in her fists.

Then her fingers whitened around the edge of the towel.

And just like that, the mask slammed back down. Instant. Brutal. Surgical.

“Right,” she said, the word brittle enough to crack a tooth. “Well. Don’t let me interrupt story time.”

She pivoted, silent as smoke, and disappeared down the hall — no door slam, no dramatic exit. Just a clean vanishing act, like she’d erased herself from the scene on purpose.

Like she knew how dangerous the truth was.

And maybe — just maybe — she wasn’t ready to hear it from him.

Not yet.

He stayed there for a while—long enough for the air to turn stale around him, for his own words to start curdling in his head.

Remembering when we built things.

It wasn’t a victory. It was a detonation he hadn’t defused in time. He’d cracked open a memory, exposed a live wire, and she’d vanished before it sparked. Smart. Strategic. Lethal in retreat.

He gently pulled Isha’s door almost shut behind him. The soft click hit like a slammed vault. One small seal on a night already hemorrhaging meaning.

He didn’t head for his bed. He headed for the gray couch on his side of the bedroom—the one too short for his legs and too narrow for his pride. Not a bed. A perimeter. A line in the sand that said I get it. I’m not sleeping beside the landmine.

It felt like a tactical maneuver. A necessary downgrade.

A makeshift firewall.

And he already knew — it wouldn’t hold.

The ten-foot walk back to his room — their room — felt like crossing a minefield in the dark. He steeled himself for what he’d find: a cold shoulder, a locked bathroom door, a thick, impenetrable silence.

He pushed the door open. He was wrong. It was worse.

She was there, still wrapped in the towel, actively pillaging his side of the room. She had his top drawer open, his neatly folded shirts now in a chaotic pile on the floor.

Her back was to him, but he could see her reflection in the dark glass of the window, a pale, defiant ghost.

“What the hell are you doing?” he managed, his voice a strained croak.

She didn’t startle, just paused her search. Her eyes met his in the reflection, and a slow, cold smirk bloomed on her face. 

“Relax,” she said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness, still watching him in the glass. “Just borrowing a shirt. Unless you want me sleeping naked in your bed.” 

He said nothing, just stood frozen in the doorway, his own territory now feeling alien and hostile.

“Guess not,” she murmured to herself, as if disappointed. She turned her head away from the reflection, breaking eye contact, and then held one of his old, worn gray henleys up as if inspecting it for flaws.

“My clothes aren’t—”

“Found one,” she interrupted, her voice victorious. She pulled out a plain black t-shirt with a curved hem. His black t-shirt. She kept her back to him, a deliberate, dismissive posture.

She lifted her arms, preparing to pull the fabric over her head. The motion was fluid, unhurried, but it forced a change. As her arms went up, the hand clutching the towel at her chest had to release its death grip.

It started slowly. The top edge of the white terrycloth dipped, exposing the elegant column of her spine and a faint, silvery lattice of old scars that mapped the skin between her shoulder blades.

He should have looked away.

His brain screamed at him to look the fuck away.

But he was frozen as she brought the t-shirt down over her head. The movement dislodged the towel completely. It unpeeled from her skin, catching for a half-second on the curve of her hip before sliding the rest of the way down to pool in a soft heap at her ankles.

The image was delivered in a single, devastating beat: the pale, curves of her ass, gone an instant later as the black hem of his t-shirt fell to her mid-thigh.

She didn't flinch. Didn't gasp or curse.

Didn't even acknowledge the piece of discarded armor at her feet.

She simply finished the motion, giving the shirt a little tug to settle it, her movements economical and smooth.

She then crouched low, and casually fished out a folded pair of black panties from the dresser drawer.

Slid them on, one leg at a time.

No rush.

No shame.

Like this was just a Tuesday and not a bomb going off in his chest.

She finally turned, leaning a hip against the dresser. Damp hair dripping onto his floor. His shirt clinging to her in all the wrong ways. And that smirk—slow, smug, carved from the same place she kept her sharpest knives.

“Jesus,” she said, eyes raking him head to toe. “You always this jumpy, or is it the shirt?”

His fists clenched. Breath tight.

“Both,” he managed, voice gravel-low.

A beat passed—tense and surgical. Then his chin jerked toward the wreckage at her feet.

“My clothes,” he said, the words clipped and dry. “Still on the damn ground.”

A flicker of something—surprise? disappointment?—crossed her face before the smirk snapped back into place. She glanced down at the mess she'd made as if noticing it for the first time.

“Well,” she said with a dismissive little shrug, “they’re not gonna fold themselves.”

She turned and disappeared into the en-suite bathroom, shutting the door with a soft click. 

He still hadn't moved. A moment later, her voice, muffled but perfectly clear, came through the wood.

“Oh, and hey—”

A pause.

“Sorry about the view,” she called out, a wicked amusement in her tone. 

Another beat. 

“Or you’re welcome. Whatever.”

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he’d been holding. It came out as a ragged, shaky thing.

That hadn't been an accident.

That was a weapon disguised as one. A perfectly executed piece of chaos designed to make him question what was real and what was performance. She’d shut down his emotional honesty with a physical distraction so perfectly timed it left no room for a response.

Ezreal’s brutally logical advice echoed in his skull. "Rip the bandage off. Tell her you just got out of something messy."

He almost choked on a bitter, humorless laugh.

Tell her?

Tell the woman who had just weaponized a wardrobe malfunction to win a silent argument?

Expose a fresh, messy wound like the Zeri breakup to her?

Yeah. No thanks.

She wouldn’t just pour salt in it; she would cauterize it with a goddamn blowtorch and laugh while he screamed.

Ezreal thought this was chess. A match of logic and sacrifice. Cute.

This wasn’t chess.

This was juggling live grenades in a locked room with a bored arsonist and no goddamn fire exits.

He then pinched the bridge of his nose as he glanced down at the mess.

The pile of shirts on the ground.

His drawer — his perfectly folded drawer—was a disaster. Shirts half-dangling, sleeves crumpled, corners twisted like they’d been through a spin cycle of contempt. Her towel lay like a dropped flag in the middle of it all. She hadn't even tried to hide the mess. That was the point. This wasn’t just carelessness. It was a message.

He stared at the wreckage for a beat longer.

And then, slowly, methodically, like his hands were the only part of him still functional, he began to fold the shirts.

One by one. Smoothing the sleeves. Refolding the corners. Reclaiming some tiny shred of control from the emotional demolition site that used to be his night.

Not because he cared about the shirts.

Because it was something he could fix.

Because it was that or scream.

He picked up the towel last. It was still warm.

He didn’t throw it. Didn’t crush it in his fists. He just draped it neatly over the edge of the hamper, like she might actually use it again.

Then he turned and crossed the room.

He dragged himself to the couch. The small one. The gray one. 

It groaned under his weight. He didn’t blame it.

His legs hung off the edge, feet hovering midair like the rest of his goddamn life. Out of sync. Off-balance. Nowhere to land.

He let his head fall back against the armrest and stared up at the ceiling—at shadows that didn’t belong to him anymore.

Ten feet away, behind a door she’d shut without looking back, was the living, breathing source of his new insanity. she was still drying off. Or brushing her hair. Or reloading her mental arsenal for the next round of this cold war.

Wrapped in his black t-shirt.

Sleeping in his room.

Taking up space in his life like she had a lease on his damage.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered.

Not a prayer.

Not a complaint.

Not even a threat.

Just the truth.

A quiet surrender. Folded as neatly as the shirts.

Chapter Text

Isha’s laugh cracked out of her like static from a busted speaker — bright, jagged, a sound Jinx had never heard from a kid who hadn't said a word since they’d found her. Not because it was ugly; it was the opposite, sharp enough to cut through the carnival noise and slam straight into her ribs. She hated it because it meant the kid trusted them. Trusted her. And trust was a live grenade Jinx knew she’d eventually drop.

Ekko was ahead, steadying Isha down from the Tilt-A-Whirl like it was nothing. He looked maddeningly composed, hands firm, hoodie collar zipped all the way up like he could regulate not just his body temp but his whole life. Jinx followed, tugging at her jacket zipper, sunglasses still on even though the sun was sliding into dusk. Her stomach was still lurching from the ride, and she chewed the inside of her cheek like it might keep the nausea—or her brain—down.

“Your kid’s got a stronger stomach than you,” Ekko said without looking back.

“She’s not my kid.” The words spat out too fast, like they burned on the way out. “And maybe I just don’t like spinning around like a blender on crack.”

Ekko half-turned, smirking. “Is that why you were gripping the rail like it owed you money?”

Isha tugged on Jinx’s sleeve, eyes wide, hands moving fast. Jinx squinted. “What, you want me to hurl so you can point and laugh?”

Ekko crouched, translating, voice calm. “She said she wants cotton candy.”

“Same thing.”

Isha gave her a look—sharp little side-eye, all sass, like a funhouse mirror of Jinx herself. Then she stalked toward the vendor stand without a sound. Ekko rose, brushed his hands on his jeans, and fell back into step beside Jinx.

“You could learn it, you know,” he said.

“What, blowing cash on pink sugar air?”

“Sign language.” He signed as he spoke, slow, deliberate: [LEARN. EASY. USEFUL.] He let the shapes hang, patient, eyes on hers.

Jinx’s stomach did another Tilt-A-Whirl turn. “She’s got a phone. I type, she types. Works fine.”

“Works for you,” Ekko said. “Not for her. She deserves more than you shoving your cracked iPhone in her face.”

That landed, and it pissed her off. Jinx flicked her lighter open, even though smoking was banned in the park. Flick, flick, flick. “Maybe she deserves parents who aren’t—” She bit the sentence clean in half.

Ekko didn’t push. He just did another sign: [TRY.] A small, open-handed nudge, not an order.

Jinx groaned, dragged her hands through her hair, and muttered, “Fine. Gimme the hand-jazz for cotton candy.”

He showed her: one hand circling, fingers fluttering like spun floss. Jinx mimicked, sloppy but close. Isha turned back, pink cloud of sugar in her hand, eyes darting between them. Jinx repeated the sign. [COTTON CANDY] The kid grinned so wide it made Jinx’s throat close up.

“Great,” Jinx muttered. “Now she knows I care. Fantastic.”

Ekko’s smirk was insufferable. “Scary thought.”

Jinx squinted at his hands. “So, are there any other secret languages I should know about, or is it just the puppet show?”

He didn’t look up from the coffee he’d procured from a cart. “My dad was mute,” he said, flat, factual. “I grew up with it. Zaun Sign.”

“Huh,” was all she said. It didn’t feel like a good moment to joke or pry.

A beat later, she jabbed her chin at Isha signing with excitement at Ekko. “Okay, I’ll bite. Is this part of the same hand-jazz, or did she just ask for your bank account password?”

“It’s the same sign language.” He looked at Isha, then back to Jinx, and signed a clean, [HELLO].

Jinx watched his hand, not mocking—studying. “Alright. How do you say… ‘you’re an asshole’?”

He sighed, showed [YOU], then a blunt, expressive [ASSHOLE].

She copied perfectly, a slow, dangerous grin spreading as she signed it back at him: [YOU. ASSHOLE.]

“You’re a natural,” he said, dry.

She grinned and clumsily mimicked a gesture she’d seen him use with Isha.

“What was that?” he asked. “Was that supposed to be a word?”

“That was supposed to be ‘thanks,’ you dick,” she snapped, dropping her hand. “Obviously your secret nerd language is defective.”

“It’s not defective. You’re just bad at it,” he shot back.

“Whatever,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

They trailed after Isha through the midway, neon lights buzzing to life as the sky deepened. Jinx shoved her hands deep into her jacket pockets, kicking at stray popcorn, anything to avoid looking at the cut of Ekko’s jaw.

“So,” she said finally, too casual. “You seeing anyone?”

Ekko blinked, like he hadn’t expected the jab. “Wow. Smooth.”

“Answer the question.”

He sighed. “No.”

“No, like, no one right now, or no one since…”

Ekko shot her a look. “You fishing?”

“Call it fake-dating prep. Gotta know the inventory if we’re selling the lie.” She smirked. “Or maybe I just like watching you squirm.”

Ekko stayed steady. “Yeah, well, my ‘inventory’ doesn’t need your inspection.”

She waved a hand. “Fine, keep your precious inventory. Just don’t act surprised if I start making up numbers.”

That earned her a dry side-eye.

“Speaking of things you should know about,” he said, trailing off. “I had a drink with your sister last night.”

She went rigid. “You what?”

“She texted me a few days ago. Asked to meet. She wants me to be her best man for her wedding.”

Jinx just stared, shock curdling to disgust.

“And,” he added, “she’s got this idea about you being a maid of honor. With me. The two of you have… things to talk about, I guess.”

Jinx let out a short, ugly laugh. “Yeah, no. That’s insane. She’s delusional.”

“Maybe,” he said, his voice grim. “But she’s planning on cornering you about it at the brunch engagement party.”

“Heh. I’ll handle her — if it ever comes to that.” The words came out too fast, brittle around the edges.

“This isn’t about Vi…” His voice was low. “This is about our first major public appearance. An official field test. She will be watching us. So will Cait. They’re cops, Jinx — professional lie detectors. Our story will have to be airtight.”

She said nothing for a long beat, knuckles white around her paper cup.

He had her. Mission parameters. The only thing they agreed on: protect the lie for Isha.

“Fine,” she bit out at last, acid-sweet.

The cheerful, chaotic crash of the bumper cars ahead suddenly sounded like a headache waiting to happen. They didn’t make it that far.

Her phone buzzed. She yanked it out, thumb smearing the cracked screen. One new email. Subject line: HOME VISIT CONFIRMATION — Today 6:30–7:00 PM (window).

Her stomach dropped through the asphalt. Lights flickered. Crowd noise dulled. She jammed the phone back into her pocket.

Ekko noticed — of course he noticed. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Jinx.”

She hated the way her name sounded in his mouth. She yanked the phone back out and waved the screen at him. “Plot twist, boy savior. Caseworker’s coming today. Better hope your sock drawer doesn’t look like a meth lab.”

Ekko read, jaw tightening. Then he just nodded, like he’d been bracing for the hit all along. “Guess playtime’s over.”

They bailed on the bumper cars before Jinx could weaponize one.

The midway bled into a parking lot made of patched concrete and bad decisions. Her Zephyr crouched there like a bored cat, all pearl-black paint and aftermarket attitude. Jinx popped the key fob, lights blinking a little too cheerfully for the way her stomach was crawling.

The email pulsed behind her eyes: Today. 6:30–7:00.

Who schedules a surprise raid with a smiley subject line? Bureaucrats. Sadists. Same thing.

A booster base was already buckled into the rear bench.

[SHOTGUN] — Isha signed, tiny fingers decisive, pointing at the passenger door.

“Denied,” Jinx said, opening the back door. “You’re a minor and your legs don’t reach the floor. Backseat for you, gremlin.” She punctuated it with a lazy half-sign Ekko had shown her: [LATER]. Isha rolled her eyes—theatrical, silently devastating—and climbed in, clutching the rat plush like a holy relic.

Ekko rounded the front, pausing, head tilted. “You hear that?”

“Hear what?”

He crouched by the front tire, pressed two fingers to the rubber, then dragged his knuckles along the sidewall. The hiss that answered was high and mean, a snake losing patience. He held up his fingers: gray-black dust, sparkles of exposed steel. The sidewall was chewed—a clean, vertical gash, like she’d kissed a curb hard and left with a souvenir.

“Fuck,” Jinx said. It came out flat, like a diagnosis.

Ekko ran his palm along the tread again. “Not a slow leak. You’re not driving this anywhere.”

“It’s a run-flat.”

“Not on a tear like that. It’ll shred your rim and maybe your spine if we’re lucky.”

Jinx kicked the tire. It hissed like a wounded thing. Her reflex was to make a joke sharp enough to puncture the moment, but the email in her pocket kept pulsing: today today today. She yanked the hatch, gutted the trunk like she might find a miracle under the false floor.

No spare. Because of course the efficiency pack with the smug little compressor kit didn’t believe in redundancy.

“Cool,” she said. “Love ‘premium’ design—minimalist solutions to maximalist problems.”

Ekko checked his watch, cop-calm. “What time is the visit?”

“Six-thirty.” She checked the phone. 4:42 PM. “And we’re thirty minutes from home if the city doesn’t get cute.”

“Rideshare,” he said. No fuss, no judgment. “We’ll grab a tire and have a mobile van meet us at the Zephyr to mount curbside.”

She hated how reasonable sounded like control. “Let me at least try the sealant.”

He looked at the gash again—a neat, inch-long mouth. “You can fill a cavity with toothpaste if you want. Doesn’t mean you should bite an apple after.”

She grimaced. He was right. That pissed her off more.

Jinx slammed the hatch, punched the app, and ordered the largest rideshare option she could find. A boxy electric van with the personality of a hospital ceiling rolled up within minutes, smelling faintly of wipes and stale citrus. Isha slid in first; Jinx followed; Ekko took the front to keep his equilibrium and also, she suspected, to keep the driver from asking questions about why the blue-haired menace and the small silent goth child were flanking the man like security risks.

The driver looked in the mirror. “Seatbelts, please.” The tone suggested he’d seen some shit.

Jinx clicked hers, glaring at Ekko’s profile because it was safer than glaring at her life. He turned a fraction, like he could feel the heat.

“Okay,” he said, low enough that only she would hear. “Script.”

“Ugh.” Jinx pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine. Couple since Lux’s party. We reconnected. Instant chemistry. Gross.”

Ekko’s mouth twitched. “We don’t need gross. We need plausible.”

“Plausible is boring,” she said, then sighed. “Okay. First met? We tell the truth. We knew each other as kids. Lost touch. The party was… a reconnection. After which we did not bang.” She angled a look at him. “Tragic.”

He ignored that. “Isha?”

Jinx felt Isha’s small weight tilt against her side; the kid had leaned in, listening. “We found her,” Jinx said, softer. “We didn’t plan it. She didn’t plan it. It was a bad night that turned into a worse morning that turned into a—”

“—choice,” Ekko finished. “We made a choice.” He shifted in his seat to look back at Isha and signed tight, clean shapes: [WE. TEAM.]

Isha’s eyes tracked every movement like a hawk. She signed back, slower, careful: [OK. TEAM.]

Jinx tried to copy just [TEAM]—her fingers a little wrong, but close. She added a thumbs-up. Not fluent. Clear enough.

“Housekeeping,” Ekko said. “Caseworkers clock patterns fast. No contradictions.”

“Right.” Jinx leaned her head back, staring at the van’s sterile ceiling. “We share a room, even though you’ve been dry-humping the couch like it’s your religion.”

“It’s for optics.”

“It’s for you being a coward,” she said automatically, then regretted it. Too easy, too true. “Whatever. We say we’re… easing into cohabitation. We rotate nights because of your insomnia and my—” she waved a hand vaguely “—night terrors.”

Ekko’s eyebrow flicked. “You have night terrors?”

She looked at him over the top of her sunglasses. “You have insomnia?” He nodded once. She shrugged. “Look at that. Symmetry.”

He reached behind the seat and tugged Isha’s backpack toward him, pulled out the tablet, and opened the notes app. He held it where both could see and typed:

We met: kids → Lux’s party (reconnected).
Dating: 2 weeks.
Cohabiting: under a week (5 days).
Isha: found → shelter → partnered to keep her safe (petition filed).
Support: Ezreal nearby; Lux friend; budget shared (rent/utilities); chores split.

He ticked off more points, measured, methodical: Who cooks? Him, mostly; she’d burned water once, a talent. Who shops? Both; receipts in the bowl by the door. Who drives Isha to the shelter for follow-ups? Both.

Jinx read it and found herself wanting to correct punctuation, which meant she was spiraling. She rested her head against the window; the city smeared by in neon streaks, Zaun coughing smoke into a sky that didn’t want it. The car was too clean. She felt like dirt.

Her phone buzzed again. The contact name she’d left for Vi lit the screen:

[Don’t Answer 🔪, 4:57 PM]

Pow. Still waiting on that RSVP. Stop ghosting. Also ran into Ekko. He’s acting off. He told me about you and him… What the hell is going on with you two?

She stabbed the screen dark. Heart kicking. Perfect. Field test, incoming—maybe.

“Question,” she said. “What’s the caseworker’s name again? The shelter tag just said ‘S.—’” She scrolled. “Email just says ‘Caseworker S.’ No last name.”

Ekko’s jaw tightened. “Then assume worst-case: tough, not easily played. Scripts tight. No contradictions.”

Jinx popped her neck. “Great. We love an audience with taste.”

They rolled into their building at 5:19 PM. The elevator smelled like someone had tried to cover up ramen with cologne. Back inside—the apartment snapped around them, too quiet, too neat, Ekko’s museum of control waiting to be defaced.

“Okay,” Jinx said, already moving, kinetic panic running the show. “Stage dressing.”

Ekko pointed. “Knife block—”

“—in the cabinet,” she finished, yanking it and shoving it behind the mixing bowls. “Chemicals under the sink?”

He crouched, pulled the child lock across. “Done.”

She triaged the coffee table: ashtray to the balcony, lighter to her pocket, stray screwdrivers to the guest room. At the TV shelf she paused. The sketchbook she’d banished to a drawer a few nights ago—with a drawing of her fourteen-year-old self—stayed buried. In its place: Ekko’s minimalist trophies—a Piltover Academy plaque, a glass tech-comp award, the vintage chronometer he’d rebuilt. Her gaze snagged on the plaque: magna cum laude. She made a face and kept moving.

“Your drone,” Ekko said, voice all business, nodding at the illegal surveillance rig on the bench, “has to go.”

“It’s a passion project.”

“It reads like a felony.” He yanked a spare sheet from Ezreal’s bed and threw it over. “Contemporary sculpture. Don’t touch it.”

The kitchen was next. He opened the fridge. “Okay. We need to curate this.” He started rearranging items, putting her leftover noodles behind his carton of eggs. An infuriating act.

“You’re doing this all wrong,” Ezreal’s voice chirped from the doorway. He was leaning against the frame, a mug in his hand. “Hiding her stuff just makes it look like you’re having an affair and your wife is out of town. You need to integrate. Mingle the chaos with the order. It shows… compromise.”

He walked over and placed one of her heavy spanners on Ekko’s neat stack of art books. “See? Industrial chic.”

Ekko just stared at the wrench like it was a dead rat.

“The real problem,” Ezreal continued, eyes twinkling, “is the photo situation. Your most recent picture together is from the Bush administration. A bit of a red flag.”

“We’re not photo people,” Ekko muttered.

“Bullshit,” Jinx and Ezreal said in perfect, jarring unison.

Ezreal produced a battered instant camera from a drawer like a magician palming a coin. “Stand there and look like you tolerate each other.” Flash. The print whirred out. He shook it like a sinner. “Voila. A romantic getaway to… the living room.” Ekko looked like he was going to have an aneurysm.

Hiding Silco’s tools in the false bottom of her duffel felt like burying a body. She shoved her most aggressive band tees to the back of a drawer. Ekko tried—too hard—to get Isha interested in a set of “developmentally appropriate” blocks he’d bought yesterday.

In the kitchen, a single dirty mug sat by the sink like a tiny act of rebellion. Her mug. Lipstick smear like a signature. She reached for it on instinct—hide the evidence—and froze.

Erasure.

The word walked in on its own legs. She saw it: the quick tidy that became sanitizing, the sanitizing that became bleaching, the bleaching that became… gone. The woman at the shelter asking for “proof of employment… a partner.” The way Powder had been scrubbed off files and Jinx had been stamped over her instead. She remembered Abigail Fortune’s house rules in Bilgewater: no tools on the table, no boots on the bed, no names from the past out loud. Safety was a mouth that ate you one habit at a time.

Her jaw locked. She left the mug where it was. Let the caseworker clock it. Let her see a woman lived here. A messy, inconvenient one.

Ekko stepped out of the bedroom tugging on a fresh tee, his earlier weariness cinched into a cleaner line. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” she said. “Where do you want my tools?”

“Workshop,” he said, deadpan.

She sliced him a look; he didn’t flinch. It helped. They fell into a rhythm: he vacuumed; she wiped counters; he set out three glasses and a safe, boring pitcher of filtered water; she swapped the dead succulents on the windowsill for a jar of bolts and wire that, weirdly, looked more alive. He stuck a small first-aid kit under the island lip where it could be seen; she taped an emergency contact sheet to the fridge with ugly, responsible tape and magneted a grocery receipt—EK/JX split—right beside the instant photo.

At 6:07 PM, they stopped moving at the same time, tuned to the same frequency. Isha sat at the island with her tablet, legs swinging, the rat plush perched like a foreman. Jinx leaned next to her, feeling the warp and weft of panic tighten into something almost useful.

“Final check,” Ekko said. “We don’t over-explain. We stick to the same clock times if she asks. Money?”

“Rent’s auto-drafted. Utilities split. Food… I mooch and sometimes Venmo you cryptic amounts with skull emojis.”

He tried not to smile. Failed, a little. “Try: we budget weekly. I handle groceries and staples; you handle household supplies.”

“Boring,” Jinx said. “But fine.”

He hesitated. “One more thing.”

“If it’s about me not threatening a civil servant, I make no promises.”

“Not that.” He rubbed a thumb along his palm—an old tell, a circuit re-soldering. “During the interview: if you need to tap out, you tap out. I’ll cover.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The offer made her want to laugh and hit him and kiss him just to watch him short out.

Instead Jinx turned to Isha and lifted her hands and kept it simple: [SAFE] (arms crossing), [OK] (thumb-and-finger), then she pointed to herself and the floor. A question in her eyebrows: You good?

Isha watched her hands with a strange, grave concentration, then mirrored the shapes back with cleaner edges. [OK] she signed, and for a second Jinx believed it.

At 6:29 PM, the intercom buzzed.

The sound went through Jinx’s body like a voltage spike. Ekko pressed the button; his voice came out steady. “Yes?”

A woman’s voice crackled back, low, bored, dangerous in its lack of ornamentation. “Family Services. Caseworker. Here for the home visit.”

Ekko buzzed her up. He looked at Jinx; Jinx looked at him. Neither blinked.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Nope,” she said brightly, and plastered on the smile she wore to job interviews and funerals.

The knock was a single, efficient rap. Ekko opened the door.

She stepped into view and the air in Jinx’s lungs turned to ice.

It wasn’t just a caseworker. It was her.

Sevika.

She looked exactly the same—a pillar of granite and impatience. Her eyes were the same: dark, sharp, and missing nothing. They swept the apartment in a single, comprehensive glance, a cold, assessing gaze searching for structural weaknesses. She paused—barely—on the rat plush by Isha’s elbow, a flick so small it could have been a blink, then moved on.

Of course, Jinx thought, a wave of cold dread washing over her.

Of all the caseworkers in this shithole city, it had to be her.

Sevika knew her. Knew of her. Had been there, on the fringes, during the Silco years. A silent, judgmental ghost from the life she’d been trying to outrun. The knowledge sat between them, an unspoken, ugly history.

“Evening,” she said. No smile. Not rude. Just not here to waste syllables.

“Evening,” Ekko replied, stepping aside. “I’m Ekko Talis. This is—”

“I know who she is,” Sevika said, eyes flicking to Jinx and pinning for a beat. Not awe. Not recognition. Just the cool cataloging scan of someone who made a profession out of reading tells. “And the kid.”

Isha had gone very still. Jinx felt the urge to step between them, blocking line of sight like a human shield. Instead she dipped her chin. “Come in,” she said. “There’s water. Or I can make coffee.”

Sevika’s mouth twitched. Maybe a smile. Maybe a warning. She stepped in, eyes already sweeping the room in a slow, professional arc. “Maybe later. Walkthrough first,” she said dryly, setting the folder on the island. She tapped the folder once, almost perfunctory. “Given history, I can recuse. You’ll still get me again on rotation.” Translation: understaffed. She glanced toward the hall. “Mind if I check bedrooms?”

“Go ahead,” Ekko said.

Sevika was already moving. “Then we talk.”

Jinx exhaled, a long, silent leak. She caught Ekko’s eye and saw the flicker: [WE GOT THIS.] She didn’t sign it back. But she moved, matching Sevika’s pace, as the three of them and one small shadow began the kind of tour that decides if a life gets to stay put or gets packed into a trash bag.

The walkthrough took ten minutes and six years off Jinx’s life. Sevika’s gaze brushed over everything Jinx wanted to hide and everything she wanted to display. She opened the bathroom cabinet—child lock on meds; good—glanced at the sharp-cornered coffee table—tch—checked window latches, and tested the bedroom smoke detector with a quick press that made Isha flinch. Her eyes touched the first-aid kit; the emergency sheet on the fridge; a micro-nod that meant nothing and everything. She clocked the grocery receipt magneted beside a damp instant photo—two people side by side, tolerating each other convincingly enough.

In the guest room-turned-workshop, Sevika paused. The table was a battlefield of half-dissected drones, solder spools, precision drivers in a stained canvas roll. Jinx had cleaned, but she hadn’t sanitized. A bench mat warned HOT; the iron was unplugged, cord looped, tip capped.

Sevika’s gaze snagged on the sheet-shrouded rig. “Art?”

“Sculpture,” Ekko said, with a straight face that deserved an award.

“Mm.” She moved on. Past the wrench on art books. Past the damp instant photo pinned by a magnet—two people side by side, tolerating each other convincingly enough.

“You do fabrication,” Sevika said. Not a question.

“I do a lot of things,” Jinx answered, too fast.

Sevika’s eyes fell to the matte case on the shelf—the lockpick set Jinx had not displayed, thank you very much—and then slid on. “Any of this ever cross the line into illegal?”

Ekko answered before she could open her mouth. “No. Hobby electronics and educational kits. Soldering, small motors, microcontrollers. Safety protocols in place.”

He signed [BRILLIANT] where Isha could see; her chin lifted a millimeter.

Sevika clocked the sign without comment, then moved on.

Back at the island, Sevika opened the folder and flipped to the fat sectioned packet with bar-coded tabs. Isha’s file. Jinx’s stomach dropped through the floor again—lower this time, into some root cellar she kept for bad seasons.

Sevika read quietly for a few seconds; the pages whispered. She closed the folder half an inch. “Interview.” The word sat like a blade on a table.

Ekko gestured to the stools. Isha clambered up beside Jinx; Ekko stood, leaning a hip against the counter. Jinx felt his steadiness like a hand at her spine she refused to acknowledge.

“So,” Sevika began, her gaze flicking between them. “The file says you two have known each other for almost sixteen years.”

“That’s right,” Ekko said smoothly. “And we reconnected at a friend’s party a few weeks ago.”

“It was… intense,” Jinx added, the word feeling flimsy.

Sevika didn’t waste time. “You two claim you’ve been dating two weeks. Living together under one. Petitioning to foster under provisional partner status.” Eyes flick up. “Fast.”

“We don’t do slow,” Jinx said.

Sevika noted something with a small flick of her pen. “Work. Mr. Ekko Talis, your employment is stable.”

“HexTech Dynamics,” he said. “Engineering. I can provide letters.”

Sevika nodded. “And you.” Her gaze landed on Jinx. Stayed there.

“Legal name Powder Fortune on the lease and petition; ‘Jinx’ noted as alias/preferred name.” Sevika didn’t blink. “Your work?”

“Freelance hardware prototyping.” Jinx heard her own voice switch registers—the LinkedIn pitch she hated. “Consulting. Short-term contracts. I’m between engagements.”

Sevika slid a page free. “Your record is… irregular.” The deadpan was surgical. “Work: four years under Abigail Fortune in Bilgewater and Zaun operations; engagement ended eight years ago—Fortune deceased that same year. Education: Piltover Academy Engineering—incomplete; file notes you were on track for summa cum laude at withdrawal. Then an eight-year gap in official records. Multiple weekly-term addresses. No previous lease in your name.”

“Lot of Airbnbs,” Jinx said lightly. “I’m a minimalist.”

“Right,” Sevika said, tone unreadable. She skimmed another tab and didn’t read it aloud. “The file indicates selective mutism probable; minimal verbal output post-incident; no kinship placement accepted.” Her voice didn’t have edges, just facts.

The facts wanted to become a siren. Jinx’s fingernails dug crescents into her palm. Her vision tunneled to the thin, clean edge of Sevika’s pages. In that white margin she saw other paper: a report stamped with a date she knew like a bad birthday; Abigail Fortune’s signature; a school transfer pulled midterm; a name blacked out because Jinx fit better.

“Stop,” Jinx said, before she could stop herself.

Sevika’s eyes lifted. Not cold. Not warm. Just there. “You don’t want me to recite the file?”

“I don’t want you to read it like it’s a lab log,” Jinx said, her voice shaking. She hated that. “Like she’s a series of failed trials instead of—” Her throat closed around the word child like it was a pill she couldn’t swallow.

Ekko shifted, tiny movement, as if to intercept. Jinx put a hand up without looking at him.

Don’t.

Sevika set the page down. She didn’t push. “Tell me how you help her survive here.”

The question felt like a tripwire and an invitation. Jinx gripped the island edge like she was handling recoil.

“I don’t fix her,” she said, each word rubbed raw. “I don’t… I’m not trying to turn her into something that makes your forms happy. I give her tools.” She forced her hands to move: [FOOD] quick and simple; a finger to lips for quiet instead of a formal sign; then [CHOICE]—a clumsy version Ekko had shown her. She said it, too. “Food. Quiet. Choice. She picks her hairstyle, clothes, activities. She holds the rat. No forced conversation. No ‘use your words’ bullshit. When she signs, I sign back even if I look like an idiot because I’m an idiot but I’m learning.”

Her eyes burned. She didn’t look away from Sevika. “I put my tools away and my solvents, solders, and batteries in the nice boxes with labels because the world already taught her doors can blow off their hinges without warning.” A laugh barked out of her, ugly and true. “I keep my monsters in their drawers so she doesn’t have to learn to sleep with one eye open.”

She dragged a hand down her face. “At night, when she ghosts the hallway, I sit on the floor and breathe with her. That’s the plan.”

Silence. Not the bad kind. The kind you get in labs right before the measurement stabilizes.

Sevika’s gaze didn’t soften. But something in the set of her jaw changed—a tiny release, like a muscle unclenching. She made a note. Then she closed the folder half an inch, as if to signal a new phase.

“I’m going to speak with Isha alone,” she said. “Bedroom. Ten minutes.”

Jinx’s heart spiked. Ekko signed immediately, crisp: [OK. SAFE.] He looked to Jinx. She matched the sign with something that almost looked competent.

Isha slid off the stool, rat under her arm, and followed Sevika down the hall without a backward look. The door clicked. Jinx exhaled like she’d been underwater.

Ekko didn’t touch her. Good. She might’ve bitten him. He leaned against the counter near enough to catch her if she fell and far enough to let her pretend gravity was a choice.

“You did good,” he said quietly.

She laughed, too bright. “I love being graded.”

He didn’t rise to it. “You said real things.”

“And now they’re in a file.” Her mouth twisted. “Ghosts in the file.”

Ekko thumbed a ten-minute timer on his phone and set it face down on the island. The seconds crawled.

Jinx picked up her lighter, flicked it twice, didn’t light anything, set it down like it might bite. She rearranged a little pile of washers into a perfect circle, then wrecked the circle with one finger.

The fridge cycled. Somewhere in the hall, plumbing thunked. From the bedroom: nothing but Sevika’s low murmur, the soft shush of pages.

Six minutes left, Jinx mouthed you think she’s okay? Ekko signed [BREATHE], then poured water in a glass and didn’t drink it.

Two minutes left on the timer. Jinx reached for the mug in the sink, thought better, left it—a breadcrumb of a life on purpose.

Two seconds left. The phone buzzed. Both of them flinched.

Ekko started to say something else; the timer was still humming under his palm when the bedroom door finally opened. Isha returned, Sevika behind her.

The kid looked… not smaller. Not bigger. Just herself. That felt like a win.

Sevika set the folder down, fingers resting on it like a metronome.

“Here’s where we are—I know your history,” Sevika said, her tone making it clear she wasn’t asking for the highlight reel. “And frankly, it gives the department pause…”

Her eyes met Jinx’s, hard and unyielding. “Convince me this isn’t an impulsive decision that eventually blows up—with a child caught in the shrapnel.”

The directness of the attack made the blood pound in Jinx’s ears.

Ekko was the one who answered, his hand on the back of the chair tightening almost imperceptibly. “It’s not impulsive. It’s a recognition that what we had… it never really went away. We just had to grow up enough to be ready for it.”

It was a good line. Polished. Plausible. A lie.

“And you believe this environment,” Sevika gestured vaguely at the apartment, her gaze lingering for a moment on the wrench sitting on Ekko’s art books, “is a stable place to raise a traumatized, non-verbal child?”

“I do,” Ekko said.

Sevika’s gaze turned to Jinx, sharp and pinning. “And you? Do you think you’re ready to be a parent?”

The question was a gut punch. A direct hit. Her mind flashed — not just to the fire, to Vi, to all her destructive failures. This time, it flashed to the night before. To Ekko with Isha, his hands moving with a patient, quiet grace, speaking a language she was starting to learn. He was building something with Isha, gently, constructively. And what could she do? She could break things. She could light fires. She was apparently a train wreck.

Her throat went dry. For a terrifying second, she had nothing. The script was gone. There was only the raw, panicked truth of her own inadequacy, made sharper and more vivid by what she had witnessed just the night before.

And then she felt it. Under the cover of the armchair, Ekko’s hand moved. His pinky finger brushed against hers. Just for a second. A tiny, secret jolt of electricity.

She took a breath. And the words came. Not from the script, but from a deeper, rawer place.

“I don’t know if anyone is ever ‘ready,’” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. She looked directly at Sevika, channeling every ounce of defiant conviction she had. “I’m not… gentle. Or patient. I don’t know how to build things that don’t have a chance of exploding.” Her eyes flickered toward Ekko. “He’s the builder. I’m the survivor. But I know what it feels like to be that kid. To be the one everyone gives up on. To be the one left behind in the wreckage.” Her gaze drifted to Isha’s closed bedroom door. “And I will not let that happen to her. He can teach her how to build. And I can teach her how to survive when things fall apart. Maybe… maybe she needs both.”

The silence that followed was absolute. She had gone off-script. Way off. She’d laid her cards on the table, not just the truth of her past, but the painful truth of her present. She could feel Ekko beside her, utterly still, holding his breath. She’d just admitted his value while declaring her own brand of violent utility. It was the most honest thing she’d said in years.

Sevika’s expression didn’t change. She just stared at Jinx for a long, heavy moment, gaze unreadable. Then she made a small notation in her file.

She turned to Isha and signed with surprisingly clean precision, a short phrase that made Jinx’s chest ricochet: [WHERE DO YOU WANT TO LIVE?]

Isha didn’t look at Jinx. Or Ekko. She looked at the rat’s missing eye like it might give her an answer, then lifted her chin and signed back, simple and unstoppable: [HERE.]

Sevika nodded, like the answer matched a hypothesis she’d been leaning toward anyway. She closed the folder.

“You’ve got provisional approval,” she said. “On the condition of continued check-ins, home stability, and zero bullshit. Don’t make me regret this.”

Jinx laughed once, shaky, disbelieving. It came out sounding like a cough. Ekko’s shoulders dropped half an inch.

Sevika gathered her things, glanced around once more, and paused at the balcony door. “One more thing.”

They both waited. She looked at Jinx. “Keep your monsters in the drawers. But don’t pretend they’re not there. Kids can smell a lie before they can spell it.”

Jinx swallowed. “Copy that.”

Sevika left. The door clicked.

Isha’s door clicked shut at the end of the hall—tablet and headphones on, rat plush under her arm.

The apartment breathed out. Jinx didn’t. She bee-lined for the balcony like a fire alarm had gone off only in her skull.

Night air punched her lungs open; the city roared at a manageable distance. She leaned both palms on the railing and stared at nothing until the static in her head evened into a soft, hateful buzz.

The glass door slid closed behind her.

Ekko joined without words, a bottle neck clinking lightly against another. He held out a cold Corona. She eyed it like it might bite, then took it.

“You know,” Jinx said, sipping the beer. “That stick-in-the-mud Sevika likes your clean record. Stable career.”

She eyed him. “Ever do anything impulsive, Boy Savior?”

“Sometimes,” he said, guard up.

“Like what? Stay up past bedtime? File taxes late? Break any hearts lately?”

He looked away. “It was… messy. It’s over.”

“Huh. Good to know.”

They drank in silence. It tasted like lime, salt, and getting away with something for five minutes.

“She likes us,” Ekko said, after a beat—meaning Sevika, probably meaning Isha. “Enough.”

“Or she’s running a long con to steal our TV,” Jinx said.

He waited out the deflection. She hated him for knowing how.

“I don’t like hearing it in a voice like hers.” Jinx’s words were sandpaper. “File voice. The parts you can say without puking.”

Ekko thumbed condensation off his bottle. “I know.”

“Do you?” She turned on him, too sharp. “You got to keep your good name. Your clean paper. Your trophies on a shelf. You talk and people think, stability. I talk, and some cop starts drafting a SWAT warrant.”

He didn’t flinch. “And still we’re standing in the same place.”

“Yeah,” she said, and looked back at the city. “Lucky us.”

Silence again. Not comfortable. Not hostile. Charged like a wire.

“That interview was a nightmare,” he said.

She stifled a laugh. “Tell me something I don’t know. She probably thinks I’m one bad day away from crashing out.”

“No,” he said, taking a half-step closer. “She saw it was real. What you said—building versus surviving—I think she believed it.”

“I was honest,” Jinx said, voice rough. “You’re the builder. I’m the one who survives the explosion.” She let out a humorless laugh. “And I looked a civil servant in the eye and promised I wouldn’t blow up. It’s insane. I’m insane.”

He set his bottle on the railing, slow, deliberate, as if hands mattered. “Jinx.”

She didn’t look.

He reached — careful, like approaching a feral animal — and tucked a strand of blue behind her ear. His fingers brushed her temple. A micro-touch. A soft, stupid thing. 

“You’re not insane,” he said, his voice a low, rough murmur. His hand dropped, but he didn’t step back. “You were just… honest.”

Her breath stalled. The city noise below them faded into a low hum. All she could smell was the lime from his beer bottle, the scent of the night, and him.

She let herself look at him then, and there it was. The thing she’d been avoiding.

Since he’d offered to cover for her. Since last week’s bad idea. Since that night eight years ago.

It wasn’t pity. Not hero worship. Not fear.

It was recognition. Slow and searing.

Like he could see her schematic and didn’t hate the mess of wires.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, It wasn’t like eight years ago — all teeth and drunken desperation. This was quiet. This was sober. It felt like falling with both eyes open, and this time, there was no ground left to hit. 

He kissed her. Or she kissed him. The space closed and it was nothing like last time. No fumbling in the dark, no bitter taste of cheap alcohol. There were mouths and heat and a sound she’d categorize later as hers, dragged out of her throat like a secret.

It wasn’t clean. It was the kind of kiss that remembered building and breaking at the same time and refused to pick a side.

Jinx’s hands were in his shirt before she knew they’d moved—knuckles scraping cotton, greedy, furious. He tasted like beer and stubborn hope. Terrifying. Addictive. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

For a beat they forgot the file, the rules, the world.

She tore herself back like she’d grabbed a live wire. Breath ragged, chest heaving. Her eyes were too wide, like looking at him hurt.

“No.” It scraped out of her mouth, soft but final. “We can’t…”

He didn’t reach for her again. Just stood there, carrying the wrecked look of someone who’d stumbled into the right future at the wrong time.

“If we fumble this...” she said, trailing off, words quick, brittle. “We'll make Sevika's job too easy." Then her expression flipped — eyes bright, grin sharp, unserious. "Let's just keep it clean 'til we’re not auditioning for Parent of the Year.”

He exhaled once, not quite a laugh, and didn’t bother to smile. “Right. The audition.”

Jinx snorted. That quiet understanding in his eyes was worse than an accusation. It was an opening. A weakness. And she knew exactly what to do with weaknesses. She stepped back into his space as if the world had changed its mind. Her palm climbed his jaw; her thumb dragged the seam of his lower lip, testing the edge. “Don’t make this weird,” she breathed, and she crashed her mouth into his—hard this time, impulsive, reckless, a correction to the universe.

He met her once—no hesitation—one hand braced on the rail, the other settling at the warm hinge of her neck, thumb on her pulse. He broke the kiss for a rough breath of air, his forehead resting against hers.

“Jinx,” he breathed.

The word was a warning, a prayer, and a surrender all at once. When she caught his wrist and shoved it to her waist, he met the demand without hesitation, deepening the kiss—angle, pressure, heat—until the bottle thumped the wood and the metal rail rang against her spine.

She caught his bottom lip with her teeth; he swallowed the sound it pulled from him.

The balcony door slid open.

“Okay, crisis averted—the instant’s dry if you want it on the fri—oh.” Ezreal froze in the doorway like a cat walking in on a sermon.

He turned his face to the ceiling, hands up. “I saw nothing. I am a ghost. The door is already closing.”

“Get out,” Jinx said against Ekko’s mouth, not moving.

“Already gone.” The glass whispered shut.

The spell cracked. Jinx pulled back a fraction—breath hot, eyes blown—and the fury at herself hit low and mean. "Of course," she muttered, half-laugh, half-choke. "Follow-through is for people who don’t ruin things."

Ekko peeled the label off his bottle in one slow strip, eyes on her, not the city.

“Jinx—” he said, soft. He started to take a step, to offer a kindness she didn't deserve and couldn't handle.

She shook her head once, a sharp little no. “Don’t.” Her voice was raw. “Don't you dare.”

He stopped, his hands opening at his sides. He understood the warning. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

A beat held between them, wired and bright. Both of them glanced, involuntarily, at the closed door like it might be watching. Then back to each other.

She gave a brittle smile that didn't touch her eyes. "Cosmic fucking timing." she then grabbed her bottle, took a swallow too big to be casual, and turned, leaving him on the balcony with the city chewing its own tail below them.

Inside, she leaned her head against the cool hallway wall until the world stopped tipping. Her phone buzzed in her back pocket. She fished it out with fingers that didn’t feel like hers.

Two new emails.

HexTech Dynamics — Offer Letter
Viktor — Congratulations / Next Steps

Her vision snapped into sharp focus, then doubled. She opened Viktor’s first.

Congratulations, Ms. Fortune—welcome aboard. Your start date is in the attached. You’ll report to your team lead on Day 1 for onboarding; details to follow. I look forward to what you build. — Viktor

She thought of Jayce in his expensive suit with his Instagram grin and obnoxious dimples. Reporting to him? Comedy. Tragedy. Both. Or maybe not him at all. The letters wouldn’t sit still long enough to clarify.

She laughed. It sounded like someone else. Then she remembered the Zephyr, maimed and sulking on the midway tarmac.

“Shit,” she said to the empty room. “I need a tire.”

She padded to the doorway; Ekko was still on the balcony, profile cut against the neon. She hated asking for anything. She did it anyway.

“Hey,” she said. He turned. The rawness between them hadn’t dissipated; it had just sat down cross-legged. “Can you drive me to Walmart? Rim, tire for my car. I’ll change it tonight.” She thumbed her phone dark. “I’ve gotta be stupid-early somewhere uptown in the morning." 

He blinked once. “Work?”

“Something like that,” she said, already moving. “Don’t get nosy.”

He just looked at her too long, and she caught it. That weight in his stare.

“And don’t make that face,” she said.

“What face?”

“The one that says you’re about to haul my groceries and my childhood trauma. Relax—we’re just buying rubber.”

His mouth twitched despite himself. “Fine. Rubber.”

They grabbed wallets, a tote, and Isha’s tablet—because of course she insisted on coming—and headed back down into the city’s stained throat.