Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is not a day like any other. You can tell immediately. It's the first time in years that you feel the undeniable tingle beneath your skin to sense the cold rainy waterdrops on your face.

Uncle Louis has put on one of his old records and is humming happily to the euphoric voice vibrating through the narrow and with shelves and books stuffed room. You, however, can‘t help but to look out of the window, sulking. Still raining and still no sight of leaving the shop soon, you realise with a heavy heart for what has to be the tenth time today. You sigh and try to keep your thoughts away from trailing too much into the negative.

Rain is one of the sources of life. It is a gentle reminder of seeing the positive in what seems to be ugly and inconvenient. It promotes the harvest. It nurtures flowers into growing beauties and cleans the air from toxic fumes. Well, that‘s your perspective.

Here in Zaun, flowers belong to the rarest and most ridiculously expensive items one can purchase. In Zaun, rain is simply rain. That‘s what most Zaunites believe.

And yet you wonder if Uncle Louis would allow you to walk through the fissures on your own.

The tune switches finally to one of your records and you cannot help but to hum and sing along to it, ignoring Uncle Louis' agonised groan. He clearly envies your good taste in music, you convince yourself, and your beautiful voice.

You sit on the fragile chair like a squashed marshmallow, fingers occupied with cleaning the used set of needle holders and sterile instruments.

Images of the last hour flash in your head. You remember every inch of burst skin of your last patient. He dealt with the withdrawal of his last shimmer dose, neither moving or making one sound as the needle woved through his shredded skin. You even had a few seconds to reverently inspect the lilac threads, the colour vibrating in his veins like a living organism underneath his skin, drawing you into their spell, before Uncle Louis tied the last knot.

You had difficulties admitting it to yourself, let alone to your Uncle, but deep down you preferred dealing with shimmer addicted patients. Your eyebrows furrow in disgust and shame fills your stomach at this thought.

You‘re able to recall that even he confessed one evening to see the few perks of shimmer in a medical context. Uncle Louis claimed that it is somehow able to accelerate the enzymes of the human organism and ensured faster regeneration. After complementing it, however, he made sure to insult the drug as an 'embellished result of Zaun's gutters; just as disgusting and destructive.'

It is easy to trade your sense of humanity for a life in comfort in Zaun. A sacred treasure that you're not willing to sacrifice. Therefore, it only makes sense to you to shut up about your preferences.

You enjoy the humanistic aspect of your work. Your heart leaps from joy with every tear of happiness a relative sheds, every heartbeat you sense underneath your fingertips after seconds of nothing, every thank you that flows over your patients' lips. It gives you comfort and peace to know that you can save the day or even the life of multiple people.

The thought that you and Uncle Louis are able to stand against the horror of Zaun fills you with pride and satisfaction. Not everything has to be tainted with death, shimmer and misfortune. Not everything is wasted. 'A tiny spark is sometimes enough to chase away the darkness', you hear your mother's voice whispering.

"Look who can smile again", your voice tears him out of his daydreams. Your smile grows as you put the last instrument into the clean box before sealing it with an also sterile piece of cloth.

"I always assumed you belong to a different species for having a smile on your lips 24/7", he counters with a grin on his face.

"Runs in the family", you tease him, watching as he is grabbing a book from the shelf nearest to the tiny storage room. He adjusts his glasses before leafing through the book until he assumingly found what he's looking for.

A few hours pass in which you are busy humming and cleaning the only operating table available, while Uncle Louis disposes used bandages or gathers more knowledge from one of his books. When finally done cleaning, you sit down on the windowsill next to the door, your regular spot, before studying the different expressions on his face while reading. Everything from confusion to realization is recognizable on his face. He raises his eyebrows, lets them fall into place again, purses his lips or smiles slightly.

You've visited Uncle Louis' place a few times as a kid, even before your parents vanished. It definitely changed over time. The piles of books got bigger and bigger, the number of intimidating and scary guests, such as he referred to his patients back then to not frighten you further, crashing your little family get-together higher and higher. The only thing that has never changed is Louis himself and his burning passion for his profession.

Just before you had to be taken in by him as a kid, once and for all, you'd stopped asking questions about his guests and their injuries. You never asked where he got his books from, even though in disbelief that they could be anything other than smuggled goods. Not even now. Nor have you questioned how he is able to afford all the equipment you both are working with, when he offers his services to the price of a cheap glass of wine.

You trust him and his decisions, no matter how weird your gut feels at the gaps of unspoken words between you. When he asks you to go into the back room or to leave him alone with certain patients, you listen. Just like now.

You immediately recognize the woman who confidently and intimidatingly enters your store. Even though you rarely are allowed to leave the establishment, you know that Sevika definitely belongs to the people best avoided. The rumors circulating about her are automatically confirmed inside your head once your gaze hits her strong stature. You're not sure of the number of people asking you for help due to injuries given by her, but it must be high enough to make you shiver.

While you are a bundle of nervous nerves, you notice Uncle Louis simply stiffen slightly before he signals you to leave with a quick glance.

You have to restrain yourself from not sprinting past her as she casually and homely plops down on one of the chairs mere inches away from you.

The smile that just graced Uncle Louis' lips has been replaced by a strict line of seriousness as he nods at you, while you slip into the back room that leads to your small apartment.

It‘s not the first time that Sevika appears with no signs of an injury. Neither will it be the last.

She only wants a little money, Uncle Louis explained to you one evening. Ever since, she shows up every few weeks without any warning. And each time she slams the door open, she hits the fact of which place you're living in right into your face as well.

How much you would like to imagine that a quiet and safe life awaits you outside of the shelter of your uncle's apartment.

But that would not be the truth, you remind yourself, falling exhausted onto your bed. Your eyes take in the scene through the dirty window right next to you. You gaze at the colorful lights and dubious creatures of the night wandering the streets.

Zaun could never win you over. Despite the pity this city deserves. Despite the injustice with which Piltover faces it. In your heart everything selfishly longs for a life in the upper city, even if you've never witnessed it with your own eyes.

Uncle Louis made sure to keep you occupied enough with your studies than to even think about daring to venture into Piltover alone. He taught you barely enough about anatomy to make you feel reasonably safe with a knife should you ever find yourself alone on the streets.

Sometimes, however, you wonder if it's just the possibilty that your parents could be in Piltover that draws you so strongly to it.

The thought of searching every inch of Zaun for them plagued you more than once. When feeling extra courageous, you would even imagine looking for them in areas that set your pulse racing beneath your skin. Areas like the Lanes. But what thought you didn‘t dare to put into action, Uncle Louis did. For years.

But despite everything-nothing. Not a trace. Not one rumor or conspiracy theory about them made the round. The dead are burried faster than the hope for life could bloom in Zaun.

You wish that the entire experience would at least surprise you, but it leaves you with a slight sting in your heart instead. Anything could have happened to them in Zaun. With every wound you treat, the question of what could have happened to their bodies tortures you painfully before you can control your thoughts again.

A disappointed sigh escapes you. Every thought of your parents only lead you to a hopeless dead end.

You decide to leave the topic alone for a while and instead devote yourself to one last meal before the store is swarming with people again. Your uncle's shop is in the south, far away from the Lanes and the bridge, almost directly across Stillwater. And yet they have enough desire to live to, at least, get physically to safety.

Especially at night, things tend to degenerate into fencing in Zaun. Better to use the last seconds of peace to gain as much energy as possible.

As per usual, you hear no sounds from the other side of the door as you put a pot with water on the stove. The thrill of eavesdropping on the two of them was tingling in your body, the first times Sevika paid you a visit. But the older you got, the more corpses you had to get rid of, the more frightened and aware you had become of the power she possessed under Silco's wing. As long as Sevika's visits do not have any negative impact on business or you two, you are willing to restrict your curiosity.

Your eyes view the boiling pot. You fill the water with enough instant noodles for both you and uncle Louis, salting his potion more than yours, the way he likes them best. As if he smelled it, he opens the door before falling on the couch across the kitchen counter the next second with a sigh.

"See", he starts, interrupted by a yawn as you're handing him one bowl of the steaming hot noodles, "rainy days make no one happy. Runs in the family, I guess."

"You look tired", you state.

"Thanks for cooking, love", he simply replies. You spar with the thought of acting offended due to him ignoring you, but the sheer weariness in his eyes arouse enough pity in you to leave him alone. Without another word, you decide to give him the room for running after his own thoughts, as you enjoy the warm meal in silence next to him.

"What do you think about Silco?", he suddenly breaks the pleasant silence with a not-so pleasant topic. The question hits you so off-guard that you‘re almost choking on your noodles if uncle Louis would not have handed you a cup of water in time.

"Why do you ask?", you question genuinely shocked, voice still raspy. He shrugs his shoulders and looks intently at the floating mass of dough in his bowl. "You know what I think about him, but what do you think about him?"

A few seconds pass in which you think hard about his question. Well, what do you think about him? Words cannot do justice to the irritation boiling inside of your heart at the thought of his work and his henchmen. You narrow your eyes into a slit. 

"He takes advantage of the powerless to gain the biggest possible profit out of them", you answer hesitantly, afraid that Sevika is secretely listening behind the closed door, ready to attack you. You're privileged enough to not have crossed his or her path yet. Your knife and dagger combat provide you with enough reasons as for why you would not survive a meet-and-greet with Zaun's mysterious, gloomy and frightening Druglord himself.

"He's not the person I would choose to lead Zaun…well, if we had the possibility of a choice", you give your final answer, remembering the disgustingly sweet smell of shimmer filling your nose after today's treatment.

You look suspiciously at the thoughtful man next to you. He's never been a huge fan of the politics and dealings of the underworld. So why…? The realization hits you like a bolt of lightning.

"Don't tell me you want to join his syndicate!", you exclaim in disbelief, nearly spilling the rest of the noodles from sudden movement. Uncle Louis calls your name in equal disbelief, tired eyes widened as he sets both bowls down on the small table in front of you.

He starts counting on his fingers. "First, my lady, you should stop rasing your voice when talking about him. Second", he takes your hands gently into his, squeezing them lightly as his eyes look at you softly, "…I could never do something that would harm you in any way."

"Right…that's why you forced me three days in a row to recite every step of the citrate cycle." You hoped to take the tension out of his gaze with your comment and succeeded. Uncle Louis laughs out loud, his smile contagiously spreading onto your lips as well while the dark rift between you dissolves.

“But now that you mention it-"

"No, uncle, I will not-"

You quickly grab the bowls, praying that you‘re able to wriggle yourself out of this torture by pretending to do the dishes. But as you expected, he stubbornly follows you.

"What‘s the first step of the cycle?"

****

After Uncle Louis has tortured you for another two hours by asking you for knowledge that you have neglected to memorize since they‘ve entered your mind, you finally find yourself in your reasonably comfortable bed. It only consists of two wooden pallets, a thin mattress through which you can feel every plank and a blanket.

However, a glance out of the window at the shivering and fragile creatures on the pavement make you gratefully pull your blanket up to your nose.

Uncle Louis usually lets you sleep through the night, unless the request is higher than managable for him alone. In the last nine years you‘ve lived with him, this occured only twice.

One time, he failed to move a drug-addict to the street because he was convinced that he'd die that night, despite no injuries.

The other time, you had helped him transfering the corpse of a woman over to her family after an overdose.

The thought leads you straight into a burning fire: Silco.

After being confronted with the faults of his creation on a daily basis, you begin to understand the withheld hatred towards his wicked politics.

The pictures of disfigured limbs shine vividly in front of your eyes. The last cries for help of victims of him ringing through your ears. Your fingers tighten stiffly around the hem of your blanket.

Has he done anything to actually help the citizens of Zaun?

Of course you are unable to blame every of Zaun's problems on him-you don't even know how he looks like in real life. But supplying its streets with poison is not necessarily improving the well-being of its citizens.

The taste of something bitter spreads across your tongue. You watch as the strong wind beats more and more raindrops against the window pane. Uncle Louis' question has opened the cage to something dormant and simmering inside yourself that is no longer willing to obey.

A scream from the other side snaps you out of your thoughts before you can put a word to the feeling growing in your chest.

If you didn't have to bear the sound of screams every day, you probably would have cared more for what is currently happening behind the closed door to your apartment. Some people require Uncle Louis' help immediately, so there is, at times, not the possibilty offered to numb the pain before you force a scalpel or thread and needle through their skin.

You turn to the other side, away from the sight of Zaun‘s tragic abyss. Your mind begins to carefully dip its toes into the subject 'Silco' again as another sound claims your attention. Another scream. This time deeper and…familiar. Uncle Louis is yelling.

Your fingers immediately clutch around the dagger under your pillow. When has Uncle Louis ever raised his voice at patients? Never before. Your heart drops at this realisation before you grab the dagger with shivering hands.

You approach the splintering door with creeping steps in order to be able to overhear their dispute.

Was it intuition or your mind that advised you to loiter in front of the door? Fate or coincidence? Whatever it was that made you able to hear Louis' words; it doesn't fail to suffocate your breath in an instant.

His voice trembles. A veil of confusion covers your mind. No matter how hard you try, you can't find your uncle in the jumble of emotions within his voice. Can't make sense of the riddle of words fleeting over his traitorous lips.

"My loyalty lies with Silco!", he shouts again. A few seconds pass in silence. Your dagger hangs uselessly in your fingertips. Just as useless as the dilemma of your body to either rush through the door or suppress his confession with sleep.

You can feel flames gnawing at your heart.

I don't think much of him.

Another burning flame.

Since he's leading the undercity, the dream of the Nation of Zaun leans towards its inevitable ruination.

Your fingertips dig painfully into the palm of your hand.

Shimmer is the embellished result of Zaun's gutters; just as disgusting and destructive.

Lies.

Lies.

Lies!

Opposite to you, he must have collected himself already, as he utters the following words with studied indifference. "I refuse to treat your kind. You may leave now."

"But they will die!", a female voice sobs desperately.

Enough!, you decide. Without thinking, you storm through the door. The sight knocks the breath out of your lungs.

Uncle Louis points a gun at the young woman whose face is covered in shiny tears. Two men are clinging to her. One looks younger than the other one, you estimate him to be around fourteen years old. Both are covered in endless wounds and injuries.

You look at the estranged man on your right, tears burning behind your eyes. How could he lose himself like that? How could he willingly sacrifice himself for such a…monster?!

But you're not lost. Not yet. You inhale deeply and look at the men soberly. The sight of the blood producing an ever-widening pool under their feet from the gaping cuts shoot you shortly into a trance of horror.

"You!", the woman suddenly cries out, pointing a finger on you. "I beg you, please save them!"

Without giving him another glance, you attempt to stride forwards before his strong hand tightens around your wrist to pull your body forcefully towards him.

"Let me go!", you command through gritted teeth. Your other hand digs firmly into his fingers but what is supposed to hurt him leaves him unfazed. His gaze is stoically set fixed on the patients as he unlocks the gun.

Fear drives you to pull the dagger out of your waistband before pressing it between his third and fourth rip without pressure. Right next to his heart. Your face turns pale. Your fingers tremble around the dagger.

"What are you doing?", he calmly voices the question that haunts your mind at the same moment. You take a shivering breath through your mouth before responding.

"What are you doing, Uncle Louis? We need to help them." Just then is he able to take his eyes off them for a milisecond to look you pityingly in the eyes. Your hearts races as your gaze shifts from the ocean-like pool of blood to the knife in your hands. You are running out of time.

"Please…", you whisper.

"If we help them, we're as good as dead."

"And if we don't…", you look at the pleading eyes of the woman, "they will die."

"They are topsiders", he emphasizes bitterly, piercing his raging eyes through you. "You don't know what they did to get those injuries!"

You block out the sting in your chest, as well as the thought of what their parents will feel once they lay eyes on the dead and empty shells of their loved ones.

You blink away the tears, removing the tip of your dagger and letting it fall on the ground. Let them be council members personally. You do not care.

"Let me help them", you beg one last time, fingers curling around the barrel of his gun so that he has no choice but to lower it. The seconds of silence with which he tortures not only you, but also the whimpering woman, stretch into infinite length.

"One", he finally declares bluntly. "You may save one person."

Before you can express the gratitude in your heart, it is instantly nipped in the bud. One person. One person will die tonight. But maybe…

You sprint towards the woman and hint at the metallic table in the centre of the room. You instinctively point at the youngest.

"Put him carefully down", you say, grabbing one set of instruments, before tearing the fabric open. The boy groans in agony as she does so.

Although you should be focusing on him, your gaze wanders to the dazed man leaning against the wall. How dare you to choose between life and death, a quiet voice whispers inside your head. You shake your head and turn your attention back to the boy.

Your eyes briefly take in the mass of blood on his tailored clothes. He is still conscious and, unlike his friend, the only thing soaken in blood is his torn shirt. The chances are good. Your fingers move automatically. First you stuff his mouth with a clean towel before freeing his torso from the remaining cloth.

Your heart stops. You look at the three cuts running across his chest. They look almost claw-like and one worse than the other. You've never tended wounds this size before, you realise, terrified.

You instinctively look at Uncle Louis for help, but he's just watching from behind the counter with dull eyes, giving you the clear hint that he will not help you under any circumstances. Take a deep breath, you advise yourself. What would he do first? The answer must lay behind the storm of anxiety clouding your brain. Your heart pumps begins to beat harder against your chest with every drop of blood flowing from his wounds.

"Can you help him?", you hear the fragile voice of the stranger. She is kneeling next to the collapsed man. His head falls lifelessly into the crook of her neck.

She cannot lose another person. You nod. You take the antiseptic and spread it liberally on his chest and wounds-just like Uncle Louis always does-which causes him to let out a muffled scream. Ignoring the screaming and crying in the room, you next heat a needle with the flame of a candle. Your trembling index and middle finger spread the open flesh of the worst looking wound gently before you find the affected artery and carefully place the heated needle on the opening.

The boy arches his back in pain. The stench of burned skin creeps into your nose before you begin to stitch first the muscle, then the tissue and finally the skin with shaking hands. With every thread that slipped through your bloody fingers, another wave of pressure flooded your inside.

Your shoulders slump in relief as you finished stitching the first wound. The other wounds look like scratches in comparison. Less deep and bloody.

What worries you, however, is the other man's increasingly pale face. You are working much slower than with uncle Louis' assistance. As if she has sensed your growing concern her fingers taste for his pulse almost manically.

"He is going to die", she whispers into the room. Her statement is not directed to anyone particular. You turn your gaze away from her haunted face and rinse the other wounds with a saline solution.

Of course he will die. The needle slides more roughly and fleetingly through his skin. You're just a weak girl who can't do anything on her own. Uncle Louis would have patched them up within few minutes.

You bite your tongue until you not only smell the metallic odor in your nose but also taste it in your mouth. Suddenly you want to do the same as the girl and give free rein to the burning pain behind your eyes. It's not the first time that someone will pass underneath your trembling hands. Nor will it be the last. But it is the first time that you alone will be responsible for it.

Tears blur your vision of the last wound to be stitched. You don't dare to lift your head up as you don't even recognize your own voice pleading Uncle Louis for help.

Only when you tie up the last thread do you look into his direction. What you see is not Uncle Louis. This creature is consumed by sheer darkness. His eyes are dead. Emptiness, nothing but yawning emptiness fills them.

"I told you: Just one person", he scolds you coldly like you're a child that does not get the candy it wants. With these words, he leaves you alone. Your eyes stare forlornly at the lifeless eyes of the boy dying in the girl's arms.

That's how things are going down here, isn't it? Everyone loses people they love at some point. That's the curse that haunts everyone in Zaun. It's not just the polluted air that fills their bodies against their will. Death is too. A birthright of every Zaunite.

You look at your bloody hands like they belong to a foreign body, feeling a foggy bubble forming around your senses. A bubble that slowly detaches yourself from your body, lifting you up. The same bubble that surrounds you whenever you think about the loss of your parents.

"You can leave as soon as it stops raining. Don't pay me."

The anxious lead that was running through your body just a moment ago turns into a hard, chilled mass, stiffening every muscle inside you. As if a bucket of cold water has been poured over you. You can see that the girl‘s mouth is moving, even if the outlines of her face appear blurred. But all you can hear is the same question spinning in your mind like a damaged record, again and again.

Did that really happen?

Chapter Text

His name was Devin.

He was the older brother of the boy you‘d saved, whose name is Lux. Both belonged to the upper class of topside.

Of course you didn‘t get the information from Uncle Louis, whom you have stubbornly ignored ever since. You can't tell whether needles of furious anger or paralyzing disappointment strike your body whenever you lay eyes on him.

No. The information stems from all the enforcers who have been searching for the perpetrators of this terrible offense for weeks.

You didn‘t even have to see them swarming around your front door: Their names are on everyone's lips. The entirety of Zaun ponders who could be stupid enough to set their sights on such a prestigious target.

You don't care about who Lux and Devin truly are, about their heritage and what they must have done that eventually lead them into their own tragedy.

However, a fact carved into stone for you is that you did not do enough. You reacted too slow and too hesitant.

It is important that you don't let your emotions get the best of you, Uncle Louis explained to you back then, when you first tried to stitch the open flesh of a fish back together. Uncle Louis impressed these words soon enough on you, and still you are not able to act on his wisdom.

You have to force yourself with all strength not to burst into tears again as soon as you felt the familiar guilty knot inside your stomach that sent bile shooting up your throat.

The fear gnaws at your nerves; forcing you to almost jump up from your regular seat whenever someone enters the store. The fear of the enforcers is the lesser of two evils.

In every wounded face that crosses the threshold, you see the same dead look that has haunted the darkest corners of your mind ever since that night. The same empty blue eyes that silently beg you to keep the life in them.

"You're doing it again", Uncle Louis says from across the room, his back facing you. He turns around and eyes the scraped skin on your hands. "It wasn't a plea when I told you to take a break."

The silence between you has been one-sided. Uncle Louis attempted more than once to talk about the matter surrounding Silco and the effects this night had on you. You rejected him each time with a quiet 'I don't want to talk to you'.

Words cannot undo what he revealed you about himself that day. Behind the inquisitive and altruistic facade lies the same parasite that Silco poisons the entirety of Zaun with.

You wonder if your parents were aware of the kind of person they left you with when they disappeared. Whether they would have preferred to drag you into death with them than let you slowly wither in this hole of misery and betrayal. But thinking about this only twists the knife inside of your heart.

You immediately hide your hands inside of your pockets and stare at the book on your lap to avoid his concerned gaze. He could have made sure you didn't need a break in the first place by coming to your aid.

But he didn‘t. You swallow your anger and try to focus on the words that stare at you since the last patient grabbed his stuff and hurried outside. Who knows? Maybe he learned about the small chances of survival inside these walls.

Heavy silence creeps into each corner of the room. After a few seconds, Uncle Louis seems to understand that his halfway stern words have no effects on you, whatsoever, and returns with a sigh to his studies.

Your fingers run over the loose piece of paper stuck between the pages of your book. It's an advertisment for a job as a waitress in a bar near the bridge. You saw the paper stuck under a patient's shoe - as ridiculous as it sounds - and have been keeping it carefully since two weeks.

The feeling that fate is offering you a new path away from the blood and corpses in these suffocating walls does not get rid of you. The bridge would only be a few meters away from you. You would be able to cross it at will. Who knows what or who awaits you in Piltover? No one would be there to hinder you from building a new life upon the shambles of your past.

Just as you believe that a bit of tension is being released from your body, your gaze shifts, eyes meeting Uncle Louis.

Can the body be equated with the will that guides it? The monster with the circumstances that formed it? Why can't you just turn your love off for him? Why does it have to fill your heart, while Devin's dead eyes cause fiery hatred to implode in your lungs that threatens to suffocate you?

Is it debt that binds you to him? Uncle Louis has been taking care for you for years; providing you with love and affection when no one else could. And you want to leave him because of-

The door opens. Goosebumps prickle like tiny needles on your skin before you even lift your head and are forced to look into his eyes again.

It has already become an annoying habit. You flinch briefly, closing your eyes convulsively before you are able to analyse the case with a clear mind.

Since that night, you pay special attention to clothes. The boy limps slightly, has a bullet shot into his right thigh and wears the rotten, smelly clothes of a true Zaunite. In one moment, he appears too child-like and fragile to stand before you alive with a black eye, bloody fists and a bullet wound. But Zaun and Uncle Louis‘ activities, which you inevitably follow, prove you soon enough to not let your eyes deceive you, as they are as traiterous as your heart.

Of course, Uncle Louis notices a true Zaunite, which is why he immediately offers him a place on the metallic table on your left side. You inspect the gaping wound as he walks. He has apparently lost enough blood to lose consciousness for a few seconds.

It happens fast. The boy groans, closing his eyes. He is about to keel over in the next second if you hadn't wrapped your hand around his arm for support just in time. His head falls into the crook of your neck. The hot breath bounces against your naked skin.

Without being able to gain any control over your brain, the familiar image already blurs your view. Her glassy eyes. His increasingly pale face and dull gaze.

So that's what she felt in his last moments, you realise, hand shaking in exhaustion around his arm.

The thought fogged your brain even further, if another sensation would not have pushed you into the present again.

Uncle Louis places his hand on your shoulder with gentle pressure, eyes signalising to the boy in your arms.

"I said you could let him go. I'll take over from here."

His tone is neither imperious nor mocking. It appears as gentle as the glint of concern in his warm eyes.

Every voice in your head is reaching out to you, warning you to not give in under any circumstances. You have to prove it to him.

You are strong enough.

Competent enough.

Death is considered a tourist attraction in Zaun. You do not belong to one of those Pilties who cannot bear the sight of a soul leaving its shell.

But you are tired beyond words. From your muscles, to your bones and to your soul: Every layer of your being is drained in sluggish exhaustion.

Your body longs to finally be able to let go again. You would love to throw yourself into Uncle Louis arms again, just like you did as a child. You want to wrap your arms around his slender torso and inhale the familiar smell of books and sanitizer sticking to his clothes. You want to let your tears flow like the water behind a damaged dam.

I feel small, Uncle Louis, you want to confess. I am so angry and so so sad. Why could you not confide in me?

You yearn to finally be able to ban the grief and hatred out of your system instead of continuing this stupid silent game of yours. It would lead you to an abyss of even more confusion and questions that will spiral you into insanity.

You turn your gaze to Uncle Louis again and for a moment, you are certain, he is able to recognize your vulnerability behind the silence. You feel relief flushing your mind as you hand the boy over to him. Feeling how the pressure of responsibility is no longer burdened on your shoulders.

Something inside you urges you to stay and make sure that he is truly helping the young man. After all, the scars of his betrayal are too fresh to already remove the bandsges. But a louder and more dominant part wraps itself gently around your heart and slowly draws every panicked and anxious thought out of your head.

Perhaps it really is okay to take a break.

His gaze lingers shortly on you, before you force him indirectly to return to his work by moving your heavy skeleton towards the door. You eye the dusted records as you do so. The have been neglected by both you and Uncle Louis in recent weeks. At least he has enough humanity to respect your grief, or whatever it is that fletches its teeth into you from the inside out.

You don't even think about cooking something as you stroll across the rotten floorboards of your apartment. You can barely muster the strength to pull your boots, soiled with dirt and blood, from your feet shortly before you fall limply on the hard mattress.

Your eyes feel dry and sore. As if all moisture had been drawn out of them before they were rolled through coarse salt. You would like to close them and fall into the deep, restful sleep you're longing for. But what awaits you inside of the dark labyrinth of your consciousness?

Is it Devin again? One of Silco's victims? Or even worse: The blurred memories of your parents that are slipping through your fingers like fine sand over the years?

You are not ready to face the answer yet. So you do what you always do when facing this issue. You look out of the window, taking in the multiple colourful neon signs of the stores surrounding yours. Watching how the lights glow on and off in the same rythmic pattern. It's almost hypnotic.

If it weren't for the countless creatures either handling ominous business or suffering a slow, pityful death underneath them.

You hear the creaking door to your small room and reflexively close your eyes. You immediately recognize Uncle Louis' light footsteps approaching your bed.

There is actually no plausible reason why you should pretend to sleep. You could open them and ask if he needs assistance with the boy. But you don't and continue to listen as he sits down on the edge of your bed and places something on the floor.

Only then does the smell of your favourite dish hit your nose: Fried fish with rice. The sudden return of your hunger almost tempts you out of your play. But the last thing you need right now is a growling stomach, so you return your attention back to Uncle Louis.

He exhales deeply. You can vividly see the deep crease between his eyes whenever he is lost in thoughts, or worried about something that involves you to some extent.

"I‘m afraid I've done a lot of things wrong, love. Things I can't undo, no matter how hard I‘m trying." A shiver creeps down your spine as he gently runs his hand through your loose hair. "But do I really wish to erase my mistakes? Despite everything, you've become so…perfect."

The tenderness and love of his words stir up a whirlwind of emotions and questions inside you, but at the same time…

Your eyelids become heavier and heavier. Warmth eases the tension inside of your body. Everything becomes peaceful. The feeling of returning home fills your heart. You feel the exhaustion glueing your lashes together like dried blood, while your breath glides evenly over your skin.

The last thing you perceive from reality are his lips, gently resting on your temple, before you let yourself fall into the darkness of your mind.

****

The sound of shattering glass violently snaps you out of your sleep.

Your body is covered in a sticky layer of sweat while your chest unevenly shakes up and down. You sit up and listen intently, willing yourself to find out whether the shattered glass belonged to a product of your imagination or reality.

Your feet are firmly planted on the ground while your eyes adjust to the prevailing darkness in your apartment. No sound breaks the gloomy atmosphere. But still, you couldn‘t let your senses ease.

Maybe it's nothing, you tell yourself, a mean trick of your subconscious. But behind the remaining fog of sleep that clouds your brain, you are able to identify the same feeling that crept over you that night.

Your heart races faster. Sweat collects on your palms. Something bad is about to happen, a voice screams inside your head.

But just as the prey is unable to recognize the barrel of a hunter's gun, you watch like a spectator how your body hesitantly moves through the apartment.

The light that touches your feet through the door slit bares its teeth dangerously in a grimace at you. Your hand rests on the doorknob. You take a deep breath as if this might buy you more time to avoid the inexorable. You do not like this version of you. Too pessimistic. Too biased. You grant yourself one more deep breath.

Time moves slowly as you turn the knob slightly to the left as something is slammed against the door with full force. You stumble backwards. Loud laughter rings out in the room that had just been dead quiet. You feel your heartbeat pulsing in every fibre of your body.

For a moment, you believe you overheard the painful groan through the roaring of your ears, if it weren't for the deep unfamiliar voice that reaches out to you.

"Still not enough, old man?"

Silence hovers over the room like the blade of a guillotine. Cold fear paralyses your body at the mental image that starts to develop.

Uncle Louis on his knees. Bruises and injuries painted all over his body. 

Another soulless laughter echoes from the stranger's mouth that sends shivers down your spine.

"Hey, guys!", he excitedly calls out. "Looks like we've got a tough one."

Your eyes bore into the door in fear, as if they are able to get you an overview of the situation. But all this proves is how much of a coward you truly are, doing nothing as they humiliate your uncle with their mocking laughter.

"You don't have to torture yourself any further", the stranger emphasizes in a theatrical, pitying tone. You hear someone groan in pain. "You're doing all of that to yourself, really." Another agonising groan. "So where's the girl?"

A gasp would have escaped your mouth if you hadn‘t bitten your hand in time. You feel disgust, fear and immeasurable pressure pressing painfully against your heart valves with every pump.

Do something!, a voice screams. But panic grips you like a lashing to hold you in place. You have to fight!

Devin smiles at you, blood covering his teeth. "First me and now your uncle?"

Your breath spreads like burning fire in your chest as you look at him in confusion. This is not what you wanted. You wanted to save him too. This Devin is not even real. Uncle Louis, however, is real. And he's suffering because of your stupidity. 

Then move, a voice gently whispers into your ear.

But as if they'd suspected it, it suddenly becomes too quiet. No painful moans. No laughter. No provoking words. Only your heartbeat and panting breath.

Something's wrong.

You recoil in alarm, despising your own weakness. At the same moment, the door is torn open and light pierces your sensitive eyes like shards. A scream escapes you as someone wraps their hand around your arm, pulling you jerkily in the direction of action. 

"Gotcha!", the strange girl exclaims happily, as if you were two girls playing pack. "Boss, I got her!", she repeats, laughing manically.

You blink disorientedly, eyes searching for Uncle Louis through clenched eyelids even though the thought of him betraying you bitterly clenches your heart.

It takes a moment before you realise that the fragile, crouched figure on the floor is actually him. Blood oozes from several cuts on his face and bared chest. But what truly sucks the air out of your lungs is the hidden knife inside of his stomach.

"Uncle Louis!", you scream. You tug desperately at your arm, but the girl only tightens her grip, digging her nails into your flesh, laughing, while you're forced to give in. Uncle Louis' eyes widen briefly, irises wandering from one point of the room to another, as if he's unable to orientate himself no more. He tries to lift himself up, but lacks the necessary strength to do so and collapses weakly.

A whimper quivers in your chest, which only increases the laughter of the intruders. You watch through blurry eyes how a man, at least twice your height, rises from his crouch next to Uncle Louis, and casually saunters over to you, only halting mere inches in front of you.

Rivet-like piercings scar his cadaverous pale skin as his pitch-black eyes glare down at you. The girl wraps her arms around your body from behind, her grip boring inside your stomach.

Once I get out of here…, you swear.

You can't stand his vile gaze for a second longer and turn your eyes back to Uncle Louis, just as he grabs your chin firmly with his hand. You gasp in horror as you view the metallic spikes covering the tip of his fingers instead of his nails.

"Look who we got here", he whispers against your skin, drawing your face closer to him so that the smell of rotten food and oil hits you. "The angel of Zaun; as beautiful as that Piltie girl described you in her speech."

Relief and anger spread through you at this information. So she did make it safely back…and also endangered your life by her unnecessary gratitude. But all the threads eventually lead back to you.

You are the one who drove you both into this pathetic mess.

You are the one who is accountable for Uncle Louis' suffering. If he will be surviving all of this, there is no way he wants you longer around him.

"Maybe we shouldn't hand her over to Finn after all", he begins, catching a tear of you with the sharp tip of his finger.

Disgust and panic at the mention of Finn's name shoots the bile up your throat. Why in Janna's name would he want to hand you over to Finn? The girl's heat at your back and the obscene gaze of the creep on your body only increase your nausea.

"Think about how much she's worth", he points out to one of his friends, who casually toys with the precious records of your uncle. Hot, angry flames lick at your tongue, burning to scream at him to act more carefully. The boy creeps closer at the pervert's comment, gazing at you like an item to purchase. 

"Flawless skin", the pervert whispers, finger gracing your cheek, as you turn your face away in disgust. You close your eyes, attempting to ease your hectic breath while begging Janna and every God listening right now, to free both you and your uncle from this torture.

"Beautiful curves too", his friend adds, trailing his knife between your breasts. Uncle Louis gasps, eyes furious with words that can't be spoken right now. More tears make their way out of your sore eyes. 

Your face is suddenly torn right back towards the two rats. The rivet-boy sights your lips with a disgusting smile.

"Full li-", you interrupt him by spitting right into his face. It takes seconds until he strikes you in the face with the handle of his knife.

You should yell at him. Force him to let you go and to leave; he hasn't even properly explained the reason why they're here in the first place. But now you are bleeding and sobbing…and you can't help to laugh out loud. 

"Do you want me to kill you already?" He digs his spikes into the cut caused by the sudden impact. "Huh?"

He gnaws at the cut with his tip, digging deeper, dragging the skin down so that the slit widens and you can feel the blood flowing down to your neck.

"No", you hiss in pain.

"Good", he says through gritted teeth. "The people of Zaun are not really into topsider ass-lickers. You can be glad that I'm not killing you."

His dead eyes bore furiously into yours as he speaks to his friend.

"Finish the man", he orders lastly. "And do it slowly. He works for Silco."

"What? No!" You stifle a sob as you brace yourself against the girl with all your strength. You kick, scream and pull. Still, it doesn't hinder them from approaching Uncle Louis like a shot bird.

They bend over him, while the taller one of them rests the blade of his knife on his chin as if in thought.

"Unfortunately, my friend, I cannot cut her tongue out but…"

"Don't touch him!", you scream so loud that your own voice is ringing in your ears. "Please don't touch him!"

Another filthy grin reveals his rotting teeth. "Well, what do I get-"

The door to the store is ripped open. Everything happens too fast. You instantly recognize the metallic arm before a blade appears that pierces through the two boys within seconds.

The girl finally loosens her grip, too startled to even notice you wriggling your way out of her arms.

"I didn't really belong to them", she lazily explains to Sevika, who slowly circles her like a hunter.

You turn your attention away from the absurd scene and sprint towards Uncle Louis.

"Uncle Louis!" Your knees instantly buckle as you notice the faint hint of a smile on his lips.

Hope spreads like a fertile seed. He is conscious. The dagger is still stuck in the wound. The chances are good. You look at his swollen face, coloured in blue and purple. They had to be good.

Only then, do you notice the actual mess around you. They have demolished the shelves that you carefully cleaned and organised every two days. Some of them have been completely damaged, leaving the contents scattered on the floor.

"I'm-", he coughs, "…I'm sorry, my daughter. I did everything for you."

My daughter.

You swallow your sobs, biting your tongue until you taste your own blood. 

Uncle Louis won't die. He won't leave you.

You vehemently shake your head, "Shh, it's alright. I…I can fix this."

"No", he mutters, grabbing your hand. "Stay with me."

He looks strange. There's a sparkle in his eyes as he looks at you; as if he's looking at you clearly for the first time. You recognize the expression too late, even though you have admired it curiously often before.

The peacefulness that smoothes the wrinkle between his brows, the bliss that adorns his lips and the glazed look in his eyes.

Death has kissed his soul.

No. No. No. No. No!

"I can do this", you whisper, getting on your feet and looking for the bandages and a sterile set amongst the chaos. "I can save you!"

This is just another task. A task to improve your skills under pressure. You grab the things needed and crouch next to him, noticing that his expression has not changed one bit.

"I…", you sob. You dump the instruments on the floor and fall onto his chest. "Please don't leave me, Uncle Louis."

"We should leave", you hear a female voice behind you, probably Sevika.

You wrap your arms tighter around his body, desperate to keep the remaining life in his body for as long as possible. There are too many memories, dreams and goals: all dead and gone with him.

"Sorry", Sevika says as gently as the hand on your shoulder, "you will thank me later."

Something hard hits your head and before you know it, the same dark hole consumes you that had deceived you before into a false sense of peace.

Chapter Text

It is the same dream that lures you into the transcendental rift, far away from the sorrow of reality.

In your dream you are a child again, looking at the various tools and vials scattered across the desk of Uncle Louis' kitchen table with great curiosity. The sun covers the room like warm honey, so for once he has a smile on his lips as he approaches you with a bowl of fried fish.

You disregard the food, mouth too full of questions about the function of each instrument and the influence of each vial on the organism.

Uncle Louis appears young, alive, in this treasured memory of yours. There is not yet a furrow between his brooding eyes, as he intently explains the individual functions. There are not thick strands of white running through his pitch-black hair. No knife stuck in his stomach.

The memory plays vividly inside your bubble, like a favorite play that you could watch over and over again without ever losing affection for it inside your heart. Everything fits perfectly. Uncle Louis told you the news about your parents that evening. In your mind they were still working abroad. Pain and suffering have not settled inside your body like foreign matter yet. There are no worries and ghosts haunting you. Everything's cozy and calm.

It‘s perfectly boring.

But just like always, the sun rays begin to trickle down the dirty walls like viscous slime. You reach your hand out to feel his warm skin one more time underneath your fingertips, knowing everything will end soon. But he's gone; the laughter of your infant self echoeing around you like an intangible and desired object. You seep through the sphere like blood through a wound. Rapid, fluid, disoriented.

You wake up, panting, as if being shoved above water after nearly drowning. Your eyes lay heavy and swollen inside the pit of your skull, forcing you to keep them closed. Your limbs cling as heavily and exhausted to the unfamiliar soft and warm surface beneath you.

Maybe you should get up and search for him. Maybe he's not dead. Maybe the pain in your chest is just a relic of your deceptive eyes.

Your naivety provides you with enough strength to raise your hand and free your eyes from the dried crust sticking them to their underlid. The first thing you see are your hands, covered in cold blood. Just as a beggar hoped to be fed instead of robbed, you flinch as the spark of hope abandons you as well. Your hands start to tremble. It's his blood on your hands. The last remaining evidence of his life.

Suddenly you hear strange voices. You shut your eyes abruptly, the sudden motion carressing a tear out of the corner of your right eye, as you listen carefully. 

"Where are you going?!", rages the angry voice of a woman, a low rattle audible, as if running.

The voice sounds deep, rough and familiar. It only takes you a few seconds until you're able to match the voice to the face of its owner. Sevika.

"Grabbing my monkey!", a much brighter and child-like voice suddenly calls out, this time from a much smaller distance to you.

"Well, you can grab it later. Let's go!"

Sevika must have caught up with the girl, as she cries out in the next second.

But why would someone like her be responsible for a child? She's violent, involved in illegal and dangerous business and as far as you can determine, it is more reasonable to assume that a rock would give you more affection than Sevika.

Your mother was different. She was gentle, calm and patient with you. She didn't let Zaun's circumstances rob her of her love and spark. And where did it lead her? Where did it lead you, if not into growing into a weakling?

Perhaps it might have been more convenient if she had some of Sevika's roughness and severity.

"But my monkey…", the girl pouts.

"Later."

You carefully open your eyes, assuming that they will be leaving, and look at the wall you are facing that is illuminated by the exceptionally bright sun. The sight is overwhelming.

Every inch of it is covered in screaming, neon-coloured graffiti. Your heavy eyes move slowly from the explosions and bombs depicted to the more gentle motifs. You notice the different animals; the bunnies, the butterflies and birds. But the most attention-seeking drawing is placed in the center of the wall: the gigantic grimace of a monkey.

So it's not a prison cell you're being held captive in, nor a norm-breaking and innovative art gallery, but the room of a creative, slightly disturbed, girl.

The realization is not as easing as expected and neither injecting enough adrenaline into your veins to carve an escape plan.

You know that you're stumbling through uncertain darkness in which strange monsters lurk, ready to sink their teeth into you. You still don't know what Sevika wants from you or why she saved your physical shell.

What you do know is that it could be a blessing in disguise. She could have killed you already instead of providing you with a warm bed and safety. But then again it's the scrupulous right hand of the eye of Zaun you're talking about.

You think about getting up. Sooner or later you will have to go home and face the chaos. Home. The term feels foul and wrong.

Home was your late night talks with Uncle Louis. Home was the safety and comfort of co-existing with him in silence when operating together. Home was a thread that would always lead to Uncle Louis.

You no longer had a home.

The bones in your body know this. They feel as if stuffed with lead, unable to make a single motion.

Anger, frustration, the inescapable feeling of having been abandoned pounds furiously against the door to your consciousness, which is still unwilling to acknowledge these feelings, as the strange-but-not-so-strange voices appear yet again.

"I'm going to tell Dad."

"And what are you gonna do? Cry until his ears fall off?"

As if the girl had been waiting for someone to offer her this idea, you hear a definite theatrical and fake cry just in front of the other side of the door.

The idea of Sevika being threatened by a child amuses and impresses you at the same time. You could not even greet her properly, the feeling of reverence suppressing any sound of your voice.

You look around and search the room for the desired object. Of course it can't be a real monkey. Goods are smuggled in and out of Zaun, but a monkey would attract too much attention compared to a literal nuclear weapon.

The search doesn't take long. You should have just rolled over to the other side of the bed sooner. You pick the worn-out plush animal up and gently smooth out the wrinkles caused by your body strangling it in your sleep.

The idea of getting up, handing her the animal and stopping her crying sounds tempting, but Sevika beats you to it.

"What-alright, alright! Shut up and get your monkey but don't wake her up!"

The door is torn open and closed too quickly for you to be able to put the monkey back to its original place. You idiot, you curse at yourself. Why would you pick it up in the first place? You relax the grip around it so that it seems to have almost slipped out of your hands in your sleep, and close your eyes.

The girl seems to be a true whirlwind. You listen to her dancing footsteps. In one moment, you hear her humming from the right corner of the room, where the drawers are being opened and closed in a manner less gently than Sevika requested.

A considerate treasure. Her excitement and childish enthusiasm entices you more into smiling than actually bothering you. Her restless feet finally come to a halt in front of you. Without open eyes, you can still feel her eyes fix unrestrainedly on you and the plush monkey in your hand.

Your breath hitches. The idea that opening your eyes will lead you into your immediate death is not far-fetched, considering in which position you find yourself in; resting defenseless in Silco's grip. Or even worse: He could have you locked up in Stillwater.

You remain silent as the girl, now more calm, steps closer. Her hand is small and dainty as she grazes yours to gently release the monkey from your already loose grip. However, your unofficial first meeting does not end there.

"I know she needs him too, but I can't sleep another night without him."

The words are not addressed to you. You know that. And yet they make you open your eyes.

Blue. Her body is bathed in sea blue. From her dilated eyes to her long, untamed hair. This is exactly who you pictured in Uncle Louis tales about the little mermaids in Bilgewater. Mesmerizing and hauntingly beautiful. Yet she is the one in awe, eyes widened and mouth open.

For a second, you consider the odds, as if participating in a gamble. Another habit of Zaunites that you despise so much.

Will she scream? Call Sevika for help? Hand you over to her?

But the little mermaid leans further into your circle that the tips of your noses are nearly touching. The sudden closeness startles you but you don't flinch.

"Whoah", she whispers. "Your eyes are beautiful."

The compliment is genuinely shocking to you. The option that someone could find your swollen, teary eyes beautiful has not been noted on your wheel of fortune. 

"Thank you." You wring out a soft smile but the movement feels laborious and hard. As if your lips resist to radiate something blissfull instead of sheer grief.

The girl doesn't seem to notice. She smiles and jumps excitedly on the free place next to your legs.

"Do you know that you've been asleep for three days?!"

"Really?"

Your eyes widen from surprise that Sevika had the understanding to let you sleep through three days in a row.

The symptoms, however, are definitely noticeable. Your throat feels dry and coarse. You're not necessarily hungry, but you feel the distinct emptiness in your stomach. Your feel for hunger was forced to shut down for several days, when Uncle Louis and you didn't have the money to afford something to eat. It's more than used to it by now.

The girl stretches her back over your tucked legs, as if you'd known each other since the beginning of time, while she raises her monkey.

"Yes! Dad's going crazy because he wants to talk to you. He played with the thought of killing you…", she rattles off matter-of-factly, adding the final piece to your puzzle. All colour drains from your face.

Her father is Silco.

Your lying in his house. In his daughter's bed. With her blanket around your body.

"But he decided to keep you alive", she finishes the anecdote that you didn't pay attention to, after finding out who exactly is laying on your legs.

"I suppose you‘re talking about Silco", you want to secure your theory.

She nods eagerly, while you pull your legs as gently and unobtrusively as possible towards you and push yourself up.

"You know, this is actually my room but I like the sleepovers with Dad. One night I was allowed to paint his face with my crayons but then Sevika stormed into the room and he suddenly got really embarrassed. I like the colours on his face. I wish he would let me paint them all the time."

"That sounds fun, little mermaid", you affirm her as you remove the blanket from your suddenly too hot body. "But it's time for you to get your room back."

You should have gotten a vision of the state of your body beforehand. But when you stand up and step on the floorboards with your wounded soles, it's already too late. You gasp, startled and hurt.

The broken vials and shards you disregarded in the frenzy of your loss come back to your mind.

"No!", she yells. "Go back to sleep, or else-"

The door is wrenched open and Sevika storms into the room, which appears too small for her large, raging figure. She sets her burning glance immediately on you. Within seconds her expression shifts from suprise to a mocking grimace.

"Look who has risen from the dead."

You cross your arms in front of your stomach as she steps closer, scanning every single inch of your body for a hint of danger, until her hazel eyes linger on your face. She turns furiously to the girl.

"Jinx!", she shouts, irritation and confusion clearly visible on the striking features of her face.

"What?"

She squeezes your chin with one hand and takes a closer look at whatever it is on your face that makes her wrinkle her nose in disgust. You have to pull yourself together to not fall into panic as your eyes wander to her mechanical arm.

She crushed my buddy's skull with one hand alone.

Shimmer makes her an invincible opponent.

Her strike is as precise as a Piltie's shot, her eye as sharp as an eagle's and her strength as enduring as a Noxian's.

The stories of your patients flutter through your mind like a flipbook. One more frightening than the other. And the more furious her eyes gleam, the more you're tempted to believe every single one of them.

"I told you to leave her alone! What's that on her face?"

"The butterflies suit her!", the girl counters, not a hint of fear audible in her voice.

"Butterflies…?", you ask hesitantly, still handicapped by Sevika's grip.

'I like the colour on his face', were her words. Of course she takes advantage of your drowsy body to decorate it like a canvas to her liking.

You breathe a sigh of relief as Sevika releases her hand from you. She is not paying any attention to you which is why you gain enough courage to sit down on the edge of the bed and stretch out your hurting feet.

They don't seem like mother and child, you realize, as their eyes battle like familiar foes for dominance and victory. Despite the large age gap, which should cause a power imbalance between them, the girl appears on equal footing with Sevika.

At least until she darts one of her steely fingers towards the door.

"Out", Sevika orders.

"But-"

"Out."

The girl, who you're not sure really goes by the name Jinx or if that was just one of Sevika's insults, gives you a pleading and defiant look, but you're not able to give her anything but a soft shrug of your shoulders. Who, in the name of all saints, are you to mess with Sevika?

"Bye, little mermaid", you say quietly.

Bye, she forms with her mouth before she skips through the door.

As soon as you feel the tension and fear entering your body, you wish that you had kept her in your arms like your own soothing cuddly pet. The fact that the person next to you is able to end your life in this very moment instantly hits you in the stomach. And no matter how hard you would try: You will not be able to defend yourself.

You were given a scalpel and books. Not weapons. This is the first time you've been caught in the midsts of Zaun's brutality.

Sevika seems amused at the sheer sight of your vulnerability, as she grins mischievously at you as soon as you tilt your head up.

"You", she points her finger at you. "Get up. Now."

****

Sevika has urged you to put your feet into her oversized boots - butterflies still left on your unwashed face - while you silently let her guide you to Silco's office.

She is nimble and impatient and doesn't give you the opportunity to ask what she did with Uncle Louis.

The walk lasts about four minutes.

You know this so well because you were meticulously counting each passing second inside your head instead of focusing on the fear in your marrow or your racing heart.

During minute one, you were walking through the three-storey, cramped building in which Silco's people were hanging around in every nook and cranny on the lowest floor.

In minute two, you've entered the sultry and dirty evening air. The sun was entirely extinguished by the polluted atmosphere, the jostling crowds and dazzling lights of the Lanes.

In minute three, you layed eyes on Silco's business centre for the first time. You vaguely remember your impressions. The growing thump thump thump of your heart penetrated you louder than the counted numbers inside of your head.

Minute four was a pure fever dream. Sevika had enough of your limping, hesitant steps and grabbed you roughly by your wrist to drag you along behind her. She strode confidently towards the entrance of the Last Drop, which door was instantly opened for you both as you stared in a trance ahead of you.

The music is terrible and loud. You've never seen a mix of so many people in one spot. They rub themselves dancing against your bare arms. Viewing you either disapprovingly or curiously. You could not react to them. This place is full of chaos, suffocating you.

And you would have surely drowned in it, if Sevika hadn't pulled you up the stairs to escape the mess.

You stop in front of a wooden door at the end of the corridor, far away from the loud music and overwhelming waves of people. It's the first flawless door you have ever seen, you notice, being able to finally draw a deep breath through your nose.

However, this is just a facade to trivialize the monster behind it.

The monster that robbed you of your peaceful nights. Your patients. Your uncle.

"Enough with your bullshit", Sevika curses, before tearing the door open and shoving you inside with a force that almost makes you lose your balance. You find your footing at the last moment.

You‘ve never felt like this before. Your fear of him and your hatred for him rage like two equally overstimulating waves.

The urge to throw yourself at him and tear his skin to shreds with your bare hands is screaming at you to execute it into action.

But you are overcome by fear. You remain paralyzed and still, not even noticing your surroundings.

All you can do is bore your eyes into the back of his tall armchair, which shields him from your view. The only indication that there is another person in the room with you is the snaking smoke that steadily creeps up to the ceiling.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Your heart pulsates in your throat like a bird trapped in a cage.

The chair is slowly turned around. Your blood freezes. The sight of him gives the 'Eye of Zaun' a whole new meaning.

Death scarred his face.

One eye is fire bathed in gloom, as the sun is covered by the moon during a solar eclipse. The other eye looks at you gently, like ocean waves that carefully cover your feet but never get too close.

What immediately catches the eye of the medic inside of you is the shredded, unhealed tissue around his furious eye. Uncle Louis coordinated you to analyze a patients' needs within a few seconds. But this man doesn't need any help, you remind yourself. At least not physically.

"Hmm", he sums in thought, inspecting your face. "Looks like someone got scratched by a kitten."

He wanders gallantly around his high-quality mahogany desk, on which you recognize the same drawings as in the girl's room, while he carelessly stubs his cigar out on the surface.

"Does it still hurt?"

In the midst of the fear that constricts your throat is no room for a sound to escape over your dry lips.

Silco does not wait patiently for an answer. He steps closer. Too close for your liking. He graces his finger over the cut in your flesh, causing you to hiss.

"Good", he scoffs. "Hold onto that memory. Draw enough hatred and energy out of the pain."

Your hand immediately shields the injury from further abuse, while Silco takes a step back. The pulsing pain fuels you with plenty adrenaline to undermine the fear you should have, trapped in an unfamiliar territory.

"With all due respect, Sir." You are proud of how much disrespect you're able to enhance in one single word. "I am not dependent on the wisdom of a child murderer."

Your gaze becomes clearer, more attentive. As if you are finally able to either flee or fight instead of remaining petrified in place.

Silco's lean and long figure turns its back on you.

"Too bad", he mutters in mock disappointment. He falls into his armchair, grabs the sharp blade of his cutter before trimming the tip of his cigar. "I hoped you would came up with a more…imaginative insult."

"If you've ordered me here to observe the creativity of my eloquence, I would like to emphasize that I surely have better things to do."

"Correct", he begins, pointing his cigar at you, "after all, I‘m not in the position of having a bounty on my head."

Your gaze drops to your hands, suppressing the urge to gnaw at the loose skin. You don't even want to think about that part. It seems like you're taking part in a game where you don't even know the rules. You do know, however, that you went into the game with a pure intention and heart. You've only done your job. Nothing more.

"I haven't done anything wrong", you explain, stretching your back out a little bit more confidently.

"Sure, but you did save Pilties." He exhales a deep breath of smoke. "And not only Pilties but enforcers."

This sentence outrages you. You analyzed the memory obsessively. You would have surely noticed if they had been enforcers, especially as they were far too young for achieving such profession.

You shake your head. "They were not enforcers. They didn't wear a uniform. One of them was a boy-"

He laughs humorlessly and dryly, as if you were rubbing your sole against the crumbly asphalt of the Lanes, "Looks like I'm not the only 'child murderer'."

You curl your hands into fists, stepping closer to the desk. "A murderer is still a murderer. Even if he's among dozens of like-minded people."

"Justice demands its tribute."

"Justice is not established through violence and manslaughter!"

His palms hit the table.

"Justice…", he emphazises, dragging the word into length, "…isn't swimming in the hands of a deity who decides to drop it from one day to the next upon us, thus establishing a false sense of peace and fairness. Justice is greed. It is rage, ultraviolence; it yearns like a beggar to be executed."

Your fists tremble from rage as you spot his equally heaving chest underneath his blood-red shirt.

"Nobody's a child in Zaun", he declares.

The conversation leads you to no clearer conclusion than to remind you once again how easy it is to the despise the Eye of Zaun.

He slaughters and exploits children. Poisons people. Toys with their addiction while he wraps himself into fancy topsider clothes. Inhaling one cigar after another. His ignorance and inhibition of Zaun‘s potential disgusts you.

You take a step back.

"Well, thank you for letting me recover here", you say, hoping he gets the hint.

Honor the one who gives you a hand in need, your mother told you as a child. You will never honor this monster, but at least your standing in his office, breathing and as good as whole.

He shakes his head almost impercetibly. "Just as stubborn as your uncle."

Your eyes wander over the raven-like lines and contours of his face before you turn away. You could ponder later how this confirmation that Uncle Louis actually worked with this…person makes you feel.

"Finn has made me a generous offer", his voice suddenly calls out.

You turn carefully on your heels and keep your distance while chewing on the flesh inside of your cheek.

You have already exceeded the limits of your mouth more often than reasonable with Uncle Louis. But Uncle Louis is - was - Uncle Louis. Patient and calm.

Silco tries to imitate those traits. He leans back in his chair, his fearsome eyes closed. He doesn't seem to be too angry. But something inside you warns you. Your words would have consequences. 

"Sit down", he orders, not moving an inch himself.

It hurts your pride and dignity, but you listen and sit down silently on the fragile wooden chair opposite him.

His gaze is meaningless as he opens a drawer, eyes sticking to you, and places one bag after another in front of you. "10,000 golden solid cogs."

"Oh", you whisper dumbly.

So he has accepted the offer. Your eyes dart from the amount of money to the door, startled, as if this Finn could burst in at any moment and drag you out by the scruff of your neck.

"Be that as it may, I'm not interested in one-sided negotiations with Finn. This is my money."

Your heart stops. Whether from relief or horror, you can't tell.

"What is this?", you ask, after Silco throws the next object in front of your eyes.

You scan his expression for a sign of protest, but Silco just leans his chin casusally against his clasped hands, while you pull the book closer to you.

But it's not a book, you quickly realise. Your eyes skim from one table to another, only to read the same name over and over again.

Louis, a bloody fingerprint and a frighteningly high sum of money next to it.

"The amount of money your uncle owes me."

Your eyes widen as you see the amount underlined in red. 17,000 golden cogs.

"Well, my uncle was just killed", your voice cracks, the words stinging, "and, unfortunately, I am not him. Therefore, I'm not involved in your shady business with him."

"Apparently, you don't take after Louis at all. He could differenciate between the true enemy and the good-intentioned offer of a friend."

If Silco had even a hint of humanity in his inhuman-looking body, you'd guess that he is currently feeling something like amusement.

But he is soulless. Otherwise he wouldn't force you to pay off the debts of your dead uncle, whose body hasn't even turned cold yet.

You don't hide the disgust and hatred in your eyes as he leans further over the table, ellbows shoving the coins-filled bags out of his way.

"I can take everything from you", he threatens, voice low and deep. "The remaining shambles of Louis' business. Your freedom", he places an all-too-familiar purple vial on the desk between you. "I can rob you of yourself."

Your head fills with horrific images of twisted, purple limbs, self-inflicted injuries and a monstrosity that puts everyone around you in danger.

You swallow hard. "What do you want from me?"

"The money doesn't play a huge role. I want information."

"What kind of information? A cure for your scars or-"

"Hextech", he interrupts, shoving another piece of paper harder than necessary into your direction.

It‘s a job advertisement. Similar to the one you found under the patient's shoe. Only this paper is thicker. The words were actually printed out and not slapped onto the paper in a barely legible manner.

We are looking for a diligent, responsible charwoman for the academy. Applicants may- 

"You want me to work for them?", you ask stunned.

"No one would suspect a cleaning lady from a poor background of being a spy. Consider the paperwork done and-"

"But our store!", you retort angrily, feeling vulnerable and childish. You can't just disregard Uncle Louis' life's work like a hopeless teenage dream. All the memories. Tears and blood invested into saving the life of thousands. Everything for nothing.

Your eyes are burning. Oh, uncle, what have you done?

"Your reputation precedes you, dear", he teases, getting up from his chair. "No one wants to be patched up by a traitor. The only thing holding your tiny business together was Louis. And now…", he leans down next to you, hands placed onto his thighs as if talking to a child. "There's no one you can crawl back to anymore."

Death is a birthright of every Zaunite, your own words echo back to you.

Your vision blurs into a mosaic of colours. Hope slips from your hands like water. He is right. About everything.

You fall silent and watch as one tear after another falls onto the skin through your torn trousers.

Silco kneels lower and suddenly turns your chair into his direction, forcing you to look at his serious grimace.

"I‘m offering you a new home", he promises. "A new job and-"

You throw a quick punch in his face. His hand immediately wanders over the scarred tissue, that is turning into a completely new shade of red.

"I'm going to repay his debts in my way", you clarify, before you lose the guts to demand this condition.

He responds to your request with his hand around your neck. It laces itself up tighter, demands you to stand up, tiptoe in front of him. Stars sparkle in front of your eyes. 

"You're moving on very thin ice", he murmurs against your panting lips. The low oxygen supply fogs your brain as your hands fumble for support and cling desperately to his vest. "I could kill-"

"Dad! Sevika threatened to-what are you guys doing?"

He releases his grip immediately and turns to the girl while you‘re falling onto the chair, coughing and gasping.

"Nothing, love."

Oh, so almost choking you means nothing to him. Interesting insight of his mental state.

"Do you like the butterflies on her face? Aren't they beautiful?!", she asks in a tempo, that nearly drowns her words in her excitement.

Your cheeks heat up with anger and shame.

"Very beautiful", he says, lowering his head close to your ear, "…but not as beautiful as the scar underneath them. Makes me wonder if a few more would make you more…persistent."

He gazes into your eyes insistently. Not only does his glowing eye rage, but also the blue one; turning from a calm sea into an onrushing tsunami.

You‘ll kill him, you decide in that moment, the taste of blood sticking at the end of your throat. You will gouge his eyes out and stub his stupid cigars out on them. This snooty, snotty, cruel and ugly fucker will see what kind of justice awaits him.

He withdraws and makes a dismissive hand gesture.

"You can leave. Think about the offer."

Chapter Text

It is one thing to observe Zaun in the comfort of your bed, keeping a distance to the notorious night-life, and another thing to be trapped inside of the eye of it. Zaun is a jumble of puzzle pieces that have been arbitrarily shortened and squeezed together. But you seem to be pushed and torn from one piece to another, as you're fighting your way out of the sweaty, filthy crowd of Silco's Janna forsaken place.

You feel the already polluted air, mixed with smoke and the sweet smell of Shimmer, etching away your eyes. Feel one person stepping on your wounded feet, increasing your pain, while another searches for support and grabs your arm. You act without thinking. You push the people away, not harder than necessary to avoid another conflict, until you grab the door with relief, to enter the heartbeat of Zaun: the Lanes.

Uncle Louis would scold you if he could see you right now: All alone and without any protection and sense of orientation in the most dangerous place of Zaun. Your throat dries out as you gaze at your surrounding, more sober this time, but equally terrified. The buildings don't differ drastically from those in your neighborhood. They are misshapen, covered in dirt and piled up like wasted food. Something familiar after all. But that's where the fundamental similarities end.

You see a man playing with a vial of Shimmer in front of the noses of two crippled and starving men. He pretends to give it to one of them, only to pull it back at the last moment, and laughs out loud. The men cry out desperately. I could rob you of yourself, Silco's voice mocks. Your hand strikes your neck. You examine the inhuman game for a second longer, haunted and tormented, before you manage to avert your gaze.

You begin to panic and think about which alley looks most safe. You cling to the numerous store signs and search for a halfway familiar face in the suffocating crowd. But nothing stirs your memory.

Suddenly a cold hand closes around your ankle. You flinch in fright, but the grip is too strong to break free.

"I need money", croaks the helpless woman so fragile, that you'd almost overheard her whisper in the screeching noise of the Lanes. Her face is pale, her cheeks sunken and her eyes as empty as if her soul had left her body already a long time ago.

You're not wearing a jacket over your thin, baggy, sleeping top and a pat down of your trouser pockets reveals that you're financially as wretched as she is.

You kneel down and put your hand on hers, lips trembling as you speak. "I can't help you. I'm sorry."

The woman nods absently, as if she's just heard another swindling excuse.

But you need her to know that you truly want to help her out. That Zaun is not a lost place, filled with demons and monsters, who only yearn for blood and violence. That there can be goodness in Zaun.

"I will go home and return with some money", you promise, squeezing her hand.

Her eyes glaze, as if they are moving right through you.

"Beautiful butterflies", she whispers in a trance. The edges of your lips fall into an abyss as her eyes flutter shut reluctantly. Her hand in yours goes limp as the back of her head hits the damp wall behind her.

You memorize the peaceful expression on her face, skin bathed in the mourning blue of the street light. 

Something inside you must be broken, you then realize. You focus on the knot in your stomach. The thin strings loosen to reveal the hidden storm roaring in the depths. But as you study her emptiness and carelessness, you appear to be feeling nothing at all.

The storm stirs up nothing within you. No tear, no rage and no urge to save the doomed. The numbing of your heart is creepy and disturbing.

Perhaps death is a savior.

She will be in a better place where she doesn't have to wake up with the immediate fear and panic whether she will even survive the following day. Just like Uncle Louis doesn't have to worry about you and unpaid debts.

The only thing that makes death tragic are all those unfulfilled hopes. Did she have career goals that she wanted to achieve? Did she want to found a family? Find her soulmate? Or explore a certain place in the world?

Your dull gaze never leaves her. Even as a deep shadow falls over your face.

"You look pathetic", Sevika states. "Get up or I‘ll personally hand you over to Finn."

You sigh deeply and stand up. Not because of her semi-convincing threat. You no longer care what happens to you. They can surround you from all sides and tear you to pieces. What drives you is not fear but a house full of shambles that you have to clean up.

"I don't have all night", she snarls. The cap of her cape overshadows her ridged features and yet the veiny cracks on her cheek sparkle menacingly as she points north with her chin.

Your eyes wander to the placid woman one more time before you let Sevika guide you through the crowded alleyways.

"You don't have to do this", you point out, secretly hoping that she overhears or ignores your stupid hint. They could have let a Piltie wander through the fissures instead of you. It makes no difference. 

"Don't pretend to know your way. Louis made sure enough to keep you sleeping under a rock", she snaps. Her mechanical arm pulls you to her right side, away from the entrances to the brothels, from which laughter, smoke and moaning emanate. "Stupid old man."

Her criticism provoke the storm.

"He tried to protect me!", you counter a little too loudly, attracting the attention of the arms dealer next to you. You take a step closer to Sevika, lowering your voice into a murmur. "I didn't even want to explore Zaun."

You didn't expect that someone like Sevika understands your disdain for the Lanes and everything Zaun stands for. But you most definitely didn't expect her to be so enraged by your perspective.

She pushes you roughly into a street away from the bustling black market, where homeless people have taken up residence.

"And now you're having a knife pointed at your face and don't know shit about defending yourself", she spits through gritted teeth. Her brown-grey eyes bore themselves scornfully into yours. "You have to change locations. Finn already visited the ruin."

Your muscles stiffen and you have to force yourself not to lose speed as not to be left behind by her long, fast strides.

"What did you do with him?"

She knows full well that you don't mean Finn. You can see the soft, hurt twinkle in Sevika's eyes before she pulls the cap lower over her face.

"He once told me that he liked the sea", she explains vaguely, but it is enough to sag your shoulders in relief.

It's true. Uncle Louis chose a home in one of the districts of the south side harbor for a reason. He enjoyed the breeze blowing off the shallow waves and the sight of the endless blue stretching out like heaven on earth. Even if it's mostly swallowed up by the gloomy island on which the well-known prison complex towers. 

An indescribable pain shoots through your chest as you realize that you couldn't bury him yourself. However, envy and anger are not appropriate to encounter Sevika's gracious act.

"Thank you", you whisper, staring at the sticky mud under your large shoes. 

She grabs your right wrist and leads you, as gentle as Sevika can be, into a barely lit alleyway, were it not for the sparse lights of the few trading stalls.

"Listen…I don't give a damn about what you did with those Pilties but this little runt is pretty pissed about it. I don't have to take him seriously. But you…", she finishes her sentence with a judgemental look over your shivering body. "It would be wise to accept Silco's offer."

Of course there's a catch. Every Zaunite acts in a calculated manner and with a view to maximizing their profit. Sevika is no exception. She wants to persuade you into believing in Silco's bizarre cause and merits.

"I can handle myself." You want to scream the words, but decide to dump as little emotion in them as possible.

You seem to fail miserably. Sevika laughs out loud and punches you playfully in the arm, which almost makes you squeal out loud. "Sure."

You don't respond to her provocation while you cross your arms in front of your chest in offense, creeping closer to the wall next to you.

Let her believe what she wants, you think angrily. As soon as you have a scalpel in your hand, she can see who gains power over whom. 

You walk a few steps in tense silence, when you're suddenly thrown against the wall next to you, face pressed against the dirty stones, arms painfully lashed behind you.

Not an inch seperates your chest from the wall, causing you to gasp for air. Sevika giggles amusedly behind you. She leans her mechanical arm next to your face as if to say 'I only use one arm and you're still panting for breath like a stray.'

"Go ahead. Handle yourself", she whispers threateningly in your ear.

You try to push your body off against the wall and free your hands out of her strict grip with all your might, but you could have just continued to stand still. You're even more out of breath now.

"Fine. I can't", you gasp in surrender.

"Damn right. You're walking through the streets without anything covering your face. How would you handle yourself if he had found you before me?"

"Are you always so…insufferable?"

Her harsh laughter bounces unbridled off the walls and draws curious eyes, but they are just that: curious eyes. No one with a clear mind dares to take closer step to Sevika, or attempts to trick her with a crooked deal.

"You're one of the nice ones", she laughs. Thank Janna she lets go off you and knocks the dust off your back. Judging the intensity of her blow, however, she probably just takes advantage of the possibility to smack you legitimately one more time.

You take a closer look at the area and a sinking feeling spreads through your stomach as you recognize some of the stores.

Otzi‘s Store of Curiosities. A dubious place with an even more dubious owner, where your father bought you a lockable, already oxidized heart necklace, which unfortunately broke after two weeks.

The Bibins. A bar, founded by three brothers, where your mother would occasionally buy you a cup of hot chocolate after work, that tasted more of water than milk and chocolate but you couldn't complain.

And finally: Veris' Dream.

The red, rotten wooden sign of your parents' boutique hangs inertly above the abandoned, demolished ruins that used to be a home for you.

You can't tell what's more tragic: The fact that you haven't thought about her name since they vanished, or that you haven't visited this place once after.

The building is entirely destroyed. It is not surprising that no one is interested into buying or renting it. Perhaps it would be better to know that someone breathes new life into the legacy of them.

This would surely trim the seed of hope that they will return and be where they always are, Dad behind the cash counter and Mom with needle and thread at the seat next to the window, forever.

You walk past the store mere inches away and lower your head before the ghosts can wrap their arms around you.

What a ridiculous thought.

"What does Finn even want from me?", you ask as you pass the last docks seperating you from Uncle Louis' shop.

Familiarity should actually calm you down. Instead, your heart trembles tensely inside of your chest, blood rushing in your ears. Is this Finn already waiting for you? Or do your neighbours, who despise Uncle Louis and you anyway, want to collect the bounty? All questions you should have asked yourself earlier instead of stepping blindly and unarmed into the minefield.

You get closer to the store, breath catching as you spot the smashed windows from a distance.

"No fucking clue but he made sure that everyone in Zaun knows your name. Good luck getting a new job, Piltie."

A job or pointy nickname wouldn't get you out of this anyway, you think, hurt. You remain rooted to the spot in front of the broken windows and crushed door. Sevika's irritated gaze pierces through you, but she seems to understand and shuts her sharp mouth for once.

"It's better to bury the memories with the dead", she advises, but the words seep through your ears like water. "Get yourself a new place. It's not safe."

And then she's gone.

****

It took you the entire night and two breakdowns to clean the store.

Uncle Louis' homemade herbs and medicine were either destroyed or stolen along with your instruments. Pages have been torn out of his book collection, your records carelessly thrown on the floor.

It was a matter of time until the tears were streaming down your face. Every shard, every page and record that you carefully swept up automatically drilled into your heart.

You question whether it was their survival instinct or pure cruelty that drove them to carry out this evil. Everything is so unfair.

Someone cleaned up Uncle Louis' pool of blood, along with that of the bastards who did this to him, but you still recognize the spot where he was taken from you. Blood never loses its smell. He laid before your regular spot. Right where the blood-soaked picture of your parents lies. The only item you can't pick up and put aside.

You decide to leave it in place and return to the shadows of your apartment, where the next shock awaits you. It is more scattered than destroyed, you realize, relief flooding through you, but that doesn't stop the tears from streaming. Pots, leftover food, your blanket and your mattress have been ransacked. 

Even the bowl of rice and fried fish that uncle brought you that night.

You flail around haphazardly. You smash the empty bowls left. Screech, cry, fall silent.

You crawl into Uncle Louis’ room, the only place that continues to smell of him despite the unusual emptiness and close your eyes. Dreams are the only thing that brings you to him. But your sobs are invincible, not granting you your desperate wish of an eternal sleep.

They are also the reason why you hear the voices of sudden intruders that you would have overheard in your deep sleep.

You press your hand on your weeping mouth and listen to the muffled voices that approach the apartement door. Your gaze races from Uncle Louis' bed to the door.

Within seconds, you shove your body between the narrow gap between bed and floor.

"You said she left the Last Drop, so where is she?", the voice of a man commands. It must be Finn, you realize, eyes widening.

You try to catch a glimpse through the open door, but from this angle you only manage to see three pairs of shoes moving closer to Uncle Louis' bedroom.

"I swear, Finn. I saw her leaving with my own eyes!", another male voice chimes in, audibly younger and much more afraid.

"Oh, really? And what do you swear by, huh?"

The shoes stop right in front of the bed.

It is agonizingly quiet. For a second you even believe that something gave your hiding spot away but it stays deathly still.

You stuff your airways with your palm, terrified that your racing pulse might force its way to them as you press your body cautiously against the dusty wall next to you.

"Please…", he cries. "I will find her."

It would only take one needle. One needle to fall down and they would discover you and what awaits you is the same fate of every Zaunite: Death.

"I don't want you to have to find her!", Finn screams. "I want her right now!"

The sound of splicing flesh descends to you and what drops in the next second is not a needle. Drop. Drop. Drop. The blood of the young boy forms into an ocean and you have to suppress a gag as it soaks your fingertips.

"He would have proven useful, Finn", a female voice interjects, non-chalant and without a hint of empathy.

"Those damned enforcers gave this girl my gemstones. Do you know where I would be with them by now?!", he yells, tossing the boy on the floor, his eyes staring lifelessly at you.

Something clicks inside your brain. The enforcers were not only looking for the person accountable for Devin's death, but first and foremost for Finn, who is representing a clear threat of Piltover's progress.

"I would have pushed Silco's ass right off his throne and this idiot…", he spits in the face of the dead boy, a tear drops on your cheek, "…led me to nowhere!"

"Do you think she gave these magic stones to Silco?", the woman asks, feet gladly turning towards the door.

It is disgusting.

Everything about this situation is inhuman and disgusting. The dagger still being stuffed into the throat of the boy. The warm blood that now sticks to your bare arms, chest and legs. The disgustingly dehumanizing nature of this Finn. And all of this for magic stones that you don't possess in the first place?

They turn their backs on you and stride towards the small corridor without paying the poor boy another glance. The distance enables you to take a deep breath, without being excluded from their conversation.

"No, otherwise Zaun would be already drowning in chaos", Finn explains, tone irritated.

As if it wouldn't be chaotic enough.

"Then where could she be?"

"How the fuck should I know?!"

There is no other way to get out of here alive if you don't flee immediately. Your eyes take in the dagger. No, you think, shaking your head in disgust, there must be another way. You look at the boy with glassy eyes. Did they think about another way when they stabbed him?

The answer is clear. You move your body closer to the corpse, rubbing your skin in his metallic smelling blood, as you form a silent sorry with your mouth and quickly pull the dagger out of his skin.

"Check the room again. Search in the closet, the bed…unlock the fucking floorboards if necessary. I'm in her room."

The pointy leather boots of the woman enter the room again. They wander from the closet, which she rummages through mindlessly, to the bed again.

The boy's face changes as you wait. He blinks. Then it's Devin. He blinks. Uncle Louis. He blinks. The homeless woman smiles at you. He blinks-

The next part goes quickly, although it stretches into yawning infinity in your head.

The woman bends down.

She looks at you for exactly one second.

And then you don't hesitate. The dagger hits her right where Finn wounded the boy: through the larynx. The sound is disgusting. As if you were slitting open the gristly belly of a fish.

However, the noise is drowned out by your heartbeat. You push the corpse aside and run as fast as you can. Two thoughts keep rushing through your mind. 

You will die. You will die. You will die.

You want to live. You want to live. You want to live.

You have grabbed the picture of your parents and are just opening the door of the store when Finn's scream echoes behind you. You don't turn around, even when you hear the first howling shot and keep running.

Your muscles are burning, just like your lungs, but you let nothing stop you.

No curious glances. Whistles. Shouts. Not even Sevika's oversized kicks, that you vow to replace if you make it to her alive. Because that's exactly where your legs lead you to.

You run past the ruins and clutch your bloody hands tighter around the picture. Not yet, you beg.

And then you run past the wall that is now lightened by the evening sun. Who's handling themselves now, stupid cow?!, you yearn to scream, while you're vision is blurred by tears.

You push further. Taste your own blood. Until finally…You clap your hands together and almost begin to sob when you see Sevika smoking in front of the bar.

Your feet stop abruptly and you feel the sudden turnaround almost bring you to your knees.

Sevika is either drawn to you by the whispering gawkers around you or by her brilliant intuition. Either way, her expression becomes furious.

You trot towards her as if through heavy sand. In turn, she needs less energy. She throws her stub onto the asphalt and shakes you by the shoulders the next moment.

"What the fuck happened, you id-"

"Silco", you whisper exhausted. You shake your head and swallow the bile that comes up at the acrid smell of your gore-covered body and the images of the past hour.

"You attract trouble like shit attracts flies", she curses under her breath, while opening the door for you and shoving you lightly inside the, now, quiet and empty place.

The edges around your vision grow black, but you force yourself to keep going.

It‘s a miracle that you made it here alive. You're not going to waste that miracle by dying on the dirty floor of a night-club just before reaching your destination. But then you see the staircase. Perhaps death is a good thing, you evaluate as you survey the numerous steps.

You hiss as you place one bloody hand on the railing and pull your sore body up step by step. As soon as you reach the neat door, after what has felt like years to you, you don't bother to knock on the door and enter the room without a sense of self-awareness.

You move towards him - at least you hope it's him, you no longer trust your eyes - like one of your wounded patients: limp, weak and with the faint impression that luck may have been on your side for the last time.

"You're dripping all over my floor", he comments bluntly, but you ignore him and come to a halt in front of his desk, breathing heavily.

"I-", you pause and push the retching back into your throat. "I murdered-"

"I'll kill you before a drop of your vomit ruins my table."

Your brain feels puffy, heavy and light at the same time. You want to describe the events in detail and explain the reason for your sudden reappearance. You would not pay Silco a visit if you were not forced to. But nausea chokes your throat, so you rattle everything off.

"Finn and this woman…I killed…and I ran", you gasp, palms searching for support on his desk.

"And you seem to have lost your language skill along the way. What do you want?"

You will definitely kill him, you repeat the thought of your first meeting.

He rises from his chair and mimics your position, only he doesn't have to drink his excess saliva like a woman dying of thirst.

"I accept the offer. For safety and a new place to live in", you offer him a bloody hand, only to retract her just when he attempts to grab her. "And Finn's death."

You want to see him burn. And then Silco. For your uncle. Even if you have to sell your pride and dignity.

Silco's red eye digs into your face thoughtfully, as if he has heard your thoughts. But then a mischievous grin spreads across his scarred lips. He takes your bloody hand. "Deal."

Chapter Text

"Stay away from Gustove. He smells really weird out of his mouth."

The little mermaid, whose name is actually Jinx, throws herself on your bed and stares dreamily at the, yet, blank ceiling. It's strange to consider it as your bed, or your room. It is rather the place that you inhibit until Uncle Louis' debts are paid and you're able to move into a new home all alone.

Sevika visited the ruins of Uncle Louis' store again to collect your belongings in the time you unwillingly sealed the alliance between Silco and yourself, because a 'weakling like you are, can't do it yourself.' You put the wooden box down on the dusty black chest of drawers and listen keenly to the eccentric girl's stories.

Jinx' has been following you ever since Sevika dragged you up the stairs to the third floor like a drunkard. She stepped out of her room the second you reached the top of the stairs, rubbing the remaining sleep out of her eyes before she set her gaze on you.

The dried blood on your body was no obstacle for her to jump at you, surprisingly awake then, in euphoria.

However, now that your body is freed from blood, dirt, sweat and glass shards, thanks to the saints and a hot shower, you feel more comfortable meeting Jinx' eyes.

Her vibrant presence is a true blessing in Silco's dreary and run-down residence. The excited and creative spirit in her body ensures that the worries and fears that lurk in the dark corners of your mind have no emerging from their hiding for a while.

"And the toilet on the second floor doesn't work. I had to go big once and couldn't flush." She interrupts her anecdote with a genuine and sweet laugh, hugging her stomach. "I blamed it on Sevika!"

You pause, the unfolded trousers lingering in your hands as you turn to her in amazement. Her self-indulgence will be her biggest strength and weakness, you think with a wide grin of impression on your lips.

"Really? And how did she react?", you want to know, picturing a slightly embarrassed, yet furious, Sevika in your head.

"She made me scrub the floor for two weeks! Can you believe that?!" She stands up frantically and waves her tiny arms wildly around. "And the worst part was that I couldn't even tell Dad because-", Jinx interrupts herself, tilts her head shakily to the right and nods with her blue eyes closed.

That must have happened when she took the stuffed monkey from your hand while you pretended to sleep.

You feel stupid and clueless as you observe her. You rummage around in your memories until you come across the right passage of one of Uncle Louis' explanations regarding a confused mind.

'More than estimated, people with unprocessed trauma tend to find guidance, healing and comfort that they don't receive in reality in simple, imaginary fabrications.'

But the question is: What was done to this poor girl? Was it Silco himself who inflicted this pain and suffering on her?

You loosen your tight grip on the innocent piece of cloth and walk towards Jinx before taking a seat right next to her. She is still wrapped up in conversation with her invisible friends–or enemies–which is why you cautiously take her hand.

The physical stimulus seems to pull her out of her trance. She opens her eyes, slightly flinching, but recovers quickly when she recognizes you in front of her. "Mylo is right. Sorry, can't tell you, even if I want to. It's a secret."

You nod in understanding and give her hand a gentle squeeze. Only then does she notice the physical connection between you and intertwines your hands happily.

"Do you see your friends often?"

You regret asking that question immediately after it left your mouth.

Jinx drops your hand like a broken toy and folds her arms around her drawn up legs.

"I don't wanna talk about it", she whispers and the broken nuance in her voice sends a sharp stab into your heart.

You don't have a clue about children, let alone how to deal best with them. But that's what first-time parents-to-be feel like as well, isn't it? In most cases, they even manage to raise a reasonably good child. Silco's parents must be the miserable exception. You're not even going to parent Jinx. But she appears to like you and that makes you instantly feel obligated towards her.

"That's fine, little mermaid", you say, forcing her softly to look at you by covering her cheeks with your hands. "You can tell me more embarrassing stories about Sevika if that sounds fun to you."

Her blue eyes light up, imitating the beautifully sparkling surface of the ocean once it's kissed by the sun. "Alright, hold on tight."

Jinx jumps from one story to another throughout the evening until it eventually becomes night.

Sevika once puked on Silco's table when she looked a little deeper into her glass.

Sevika was caught making out with one of her women by Jinx, after she mistook Jinx' room for hers.

Supposedly, she even had to switch rooms with Jinx because the 'weird, loud screams'–her description, that left no room for your imagination–were keeping Silco awake whose room is down the hall, three doors away from you, and has been next to Sevika's. 

Your enthusiasm for a good night's sleep shrank radically when you heard this and realized that you are now in possession of the lucky room next to Sevika's.

But that's not why you're tossing and turning, alone and restless, in your new, much more comfortable and actual bed.

Jinx' tales were jumbled and without a thread that led them to a fixed point, but your thoughts are just as confusing, flooding your brain like a flood of too many unprocessed information. There is a hole of uncertainty consuming you. Letting you fall into one unanswered question after another.

What role did Uncle Louis actually play in Silco's power game?

Why did he work for a starvation wage in your business, when he had an amount of debts to repay?

What did he even take out the loan for?

Why is everyone obsessed with Hextech?

And what would expect you in tomorrows meeting with Silco, Sevika and the others?

You take a deep breath as you stare motionlessly at the unlit light bulb, to which Jinx has attached small purple butterflies made of wire and paper.

A cleaner in Piltover would probably earn no more than a conventional merchant in the Lanes. With that approach and your semi-reliable math skills, it would take you less than a year to pay off the debt and save some money for yourself. You only need a little bit of luck and downsize your daily rations to one meal per day. You would no longer owe Silco anything and could leave, after what will certainly be the worst year of your life.

In the thunderous roaring, cheering or begging of the Zaunites, night must have reached its pinnacle.

The noise that invaded your room back in Uncle Louis' apartment isn't remotely comparable to that of the Lanes. You don't even have to open the small circular window above your dresser to feel like as if trapped in the middle of action.

It feels foreign. Not like a home in which you can let yourself fall without a care in the world.

You listen to the creaking of the floorboards and stairs on the lower floors. The voices of the strangers with whom you are suddenly living under the same roof drift to you and you can do nothing against the terrible loneliness that overcomes you.

You feel as if they are chatting about old memories, in which you didn't yet exist. Everyone has each other and only you stand on the sidelines, watching them from the window, a clear cut between you.

You try to drown the feeling in the blackness of your sleep, but with every second passing in darkness, you vividly watch how another drop of blood oozes from the woman's throat. It had been an unavoidable measure.

She would have done the same to you without a guilty conscience. Like an indifferent item on her agenda, she would have carved her dagger through your skin.

But you're not a soulless machine produced by the Fissures. The pleading panic of her green eyes continues to haunt you. And your memory wouldn't be the only thing attaching you to this significant moment in your life.

Your fingers reach under your pillow, sensing the picture of your parents, and run over the rough, leather handle of the dagger Sevika placed then on top of the box without an elaboration.

You have decided to keep it. Not as a morbidly and proud trophy. But as a warning of how close you always are to becoming one of them.

"Sleep won't be an option", you sigh disappointedly into the isolation of your room.

Being aimless has always been a fear of yours. If it was too quiet in the store, you rearranged the books–which infuriated Uncle Louis to a maximum–, read or sanitized the instruments again.

When that was done and there was still nothing to do, you had Uncle Louis to chase away your boredom with exciting or ridiculously funny stories from his youth.

But now you're just as restless and there's nothing and no one to engage with.

You get up. You check that everything in your closet is folded neatly–which it is–and go into the micro-sized bathroom next to your bed.

There you inspect the remaining scar on the right side of your face. The skin is crimson coloured and stretches from your cheekbone to a tiny milimeter above your jaw.

At least that rivet-boy didn't press too hard, so that the skin was able to recover well despite your neglect.

The scar could have been beautiful, you think. If it wouldn't be a tormenting embodiment of your loss, your weakness and the symbol of the death of your old life. Exactly then, it could have almost appeared somehow picturesque.

Now that this is also done, you lean against the bed frame, brooding, the painted door exactly opposite you.

The Lanes are poisoning you, love, don't waste your precious life on them, Uncle Louis told you when you tried to sneak out again as a teenager and got caught–again.

You always felt like a stupid child when he said that. Now, you understand that he intended to protect you. But then you yearned to see the Fissures with your own eyes and gather your experiences, even if they were bad. It was as if you were chasing a meaningless dream, without knowing whether it is a good dream or a nightmare. But now you could dare to chase it.

You quickly move to your bed, grab the dagger and stride towards the door.

As you place your hand on the cool door handle, you expect to hear Uncle Louis' reprimanding voice to hold you back. You wait. But instead, you continue to hear the external sounds of the streets and your own breathing fighting against the silence.

You hesitate. A short walk through the building would be enough to get familiar with the Lanes for now.

And just as impulsively as the idea comes to you, it collapses too as you step out of your room and feel a cold breeze blowing in from the other side of the door.

You turn your head to the right. You see two girls sitting on the steps, gossiping and smoking, paying no attention to your presence apart from a quick glance.

However, you don't feel like having a conversation and they both seem to be amused without you anyway, which is why you aim for the open balcony door on the other end again.

With every step you take towards it, the irritating laughter, shouts of the traders and begging of the poor become more and more distant from you. As if you were entering an entirely different district of the Fissures.

This must be the reason Silco claimed this room for himself, you think, passing the last door that Jinx painted with a golden crown in her characteristic style. A painted crown for a pompous dictator.

If the sight that presents itself to you in the next moment hadn't drawn goosebumps across your skin, you might have smiled at your thoughts. But Silco seems to spoil everything with his mere presence.

Your foot hovers over the grated floor of the balcony as you spot the pompous dictator, back turned to you, both hands braced on the metall railing, surveying his hellish city while the smoke of his cigar stains the air in meandering patterns.

No, you decide angrily, fingers gracing the healed skin of your neck. Not tonight. You quietly put your foot down in front of the entrance and attempt to flee, hand on the dagger wedged between your hip and waistband.

"You don't have to flee. I won't hurt you", he says, not looking at you. Your muscles freeze in your flight. At that moment he turns around, an amused twinkle in his mismatched eyes. "As long as you are of advantage to me."

You hear the unmistakable scorn in his deep voice: Dare or dare not. At the end of the day it's me who has power over you.

But a player is most vulnerable when he thinks he's winning.

You step onto the balcony and feign the cheap copy of self-confidence by straightening your back, lifting your chin and maintaining eye contact. But your bones are shivering deeply in your frozen body, and not only because of the howling wind.

To your surprise he offers you a drag of his cigar as soon as you come to a halt a good meter next to him, but you deny. "I don't smoke."

He doesn't respond to that and turns back to the chaotic and colorful bustle of Zaun.

"The first corpse in the basement is something special, indeed. You won't get rid of her quickly."

You feel his biting gaze on your face.

"I will not talk about it", you state, not regarding him one glance.

What happens then is too bizarre to comprehend. He respects your boundary.

You both fall into a strange silence. Silco, because he is probably calculating the next power move in his plan of world dominance. You, because you have to restrain the urge to either angrily snipe at him for–well, everything–or because you're too afraid to get a word out.

"Do you forget the faces with every new corpse that piles up?"

Your question is a combination of both feelings welling inside you. Hatred for his pointless policies. Fear of the soulless monster next to you.

When he turns to you, he doesn't acknowledge any of those insinuations. As if you had asked him the question out of plain curiosity.

"If you kill for the right reason: never."

"And what would that right reason be?"

"Vengeance", he emphasizes. He scrutinizes your furrowed brows, your eyes narrowed in disgust and your lips drawn into a strict line. "I don't like this expression. Turn it off."

"I don't hide my feelings and impressions behind a mask. Maybe you should try that as well: Being authentic and honest with other people."

In reaction to your provocation he steps closer. Your fingers slip to your dagger.

"You talk too hastily", he teases, clicking his tongue. "How long did your uncle lie to you? Eleven or twelve years?"

You recognize it in his eyes. The pleasure that swims in them as he observes what that number does to you; your facial expression shifting from surprise, disbelief and to a painful realization.

12 years.

It was not a fleeting alliance between them, as it would be with you. Uncle Louis believed in this demon-like dictator, with his distorted morals and ideals. And not only that. He went so far in promoting and supporting his cruel operation. So what made him different from this exploitative, murderous and cruel man during those twelve years?

Silco looks at your muted facade like a perfected masterpiece. He stubs out his cigarette, leaning closer, smoke and sandalwood streaming from his clothes. "As we both know, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, darling."

He tries to walk past you, but you manage to grab his shoulders and push him against the brick wall just in time. Anger and pain fueling you with new, unpredictable strength.

You know that you won't kill him, even as you press the tip of your dagger against his throat. Not yet. In a macabre way you are dependent on him and you have no doubt that his people would mercilessly tear you to pieces and consume you with bared teeth.

No, at this moment, you dare to approach a conversation in his language. The language of violence.

The roles are reversed and the sensation of superiority is intoxicating, electrifying, as you see the brief spark of panic flash across his scarred features. It drives you on. You push against his slim frame with all your strength, indulging in the way he gasps as you ram your elbow into his stomach.

"You've become offensive", he notes in sarcastic amazement.

You are becoming them, whispers a voice in your head. But that's not true. Just because you use their weapons to your advantage, the core of your identity won't be changed. It's a temporary costume you wrap yourself in.

You shake your head. "I adapt to my environment."

"A true survivalist."

You dig the sharp edge deeper into his skin, drawing a single drop of blood. The steely wall of indifference and patience in his attitude begins to crumble as he detects the motion.

"You are aiming at the wrong target. Lower the knife. Now", he commands. You ignore him and dig your fingertips harder into the soft flesh above his liver.

Try to find the liver if possible to cause immediate pain and dizziness, Uncle Louis' once explained. You no longer want to know where he got this knowledge from, but the most important thing is that it works.

Silco groans in agony, head falling back.

"As far as I know, you tried to strangle me, so it would only be fair"–you lower the knife, poking through the fabric of his vest that seperates the metal from his heart–"if I return the favor."

"Justice is not established through violence and manslaughter", he quotes. "I considered you to be a woman of your word."

The fact that he memorized your words startles you, forcing you to loosen the grip for a second. And yet he didn't understand the meaning behind them.

You laugh out loud. "This has nothing to do with justice", you counter.

"Then what is this?", he asks. He bends his head down, strands of grey and raven-black hair covering his forehead.

"Anger?", he presses the tip of your dagger further into the fabric as he leans towards you. "Fear?" His face approaches yours. Your breath catches. "Desire?"

"Vengeance", you repeat. "Vengeance for Louis' blood that covers your hands. For the innocent children, forced to work for you, who I then have to patch up like a torn shirt."

"I offer those children to be part of Zaun's liberation instead of living a life that consists of begging on streets or in brothels."

"Oh, how wonderful it must be to live locked up in a drug lab!"

"I can look elsewhere for a big-mouthed investment. The only thing keeping you alive right now is your uncle, stupid girl."

Your hand is gripping the weapon too tightly, causing it to tremble. "Don't mention him."

Every extra second you can spend unharmed in Silco's presence is either due to his stupidity or your outrageous luck. You are not naive enough to believe that he wouldn't be able to overpower you. This is just a silly game to him. It's written in his serene demeanor. He doesn't consider you a threat and that makes your blood boil.

"Your uncle knew what he was getting himself into. His death is not my fault."

"It is!", you yell. You drop the knife, grab his collar and throw him against the wall. "You could have protected him!"

The close proximity allows him to see the tears swimming in your eyes, but you look past your pride and bore your fingers into the cloth. "You knew that we were surrounded by Finn's people and yet you discharged him like a useless toy!"

"He has been a good and loyal friend of mine. I understand your pain."

His face is hard, without any emotion or compassion. But his hand tries to communicate something different. You understand what its goal is, the movement determined and sure as the long, slender fingers almost wrap themselves around your skin. You let go of him abruptly.

"A monster like you is not capable of understanding human emotions", you comment scornfully. The first rays of sunlight burn like the dictator's eye on the horizon as you try to turn away from him.

However, his fingers wrap tightly around your arm. Suddenly you are the one pushed against the wall, trapped between his braced arms.

"I'm sick of your impertinent tongue and prejudices. You complain all the time, blame your issues on others and are unable to stand on your own two feet. And the worst thing is that you can't admit the truth to yourself."

Move, do something, defend yourself!, your mind urges you. But his face is too close to yours. His raging smokey breath mingles with yours as his eyes narrow. Blue lagoon merging with red magma.

"Louis would be alive if you hadn't saved those Pilties. You saved one irrelevant life at his expense. That's the truth."

That's a lie!, you want to shout. Sevika should have been there sooner. Those guys should have beaten you up instead of Uncle Louis. The Topsiders should never have shown up. Yet, his words open the door in your consciousness that has thrust back the truth with all its might.

You steered the course. And you forced it into a direction of violence, destruction and death.

You lower your eyes silently to his chest. A single tear rolls down your cheek.

"And before I let you go I have one last piece of well-meant advice for you", he says, leaning closer, scarred lips brushing your ear. "The next time you decide to threaten someone", his thumb suddenly passes through a previously non-existent slit in your shirt, carressing the skin of your belly, "make sure they don't have any weapons on them."

A stifled, humiliating gasp escapes from your throat. His skin lingers on yours for a second, directly over your liver.

Just as suddenly as he locked you up, he releases you. You see a blade flash in the dim light of dusk before it vanishes in his sleeve. Silco takes a step back, oblivious to you as he brushes the invisible dust of his posh vest and combs the loose strands of hair back into their rightful place.

Hatred continues to lick at your tongue in flames, ready to burn him the way he burned you. But you know better than to give in now. You can't beat Silco with open cards and honest words. You would have to discover his weakness and use it against him in the most vulnerable moment possible.

You want to disappear for good when his croaking voice holds you back one last time.

"Make sure to get enough rest. If you jeopardize my mission with your sleepiness, the knife will slip deeper."

Chapter Text

Your eyes are burning, your body feels stiff and sore, and your brain would rather be sold on the black market than function properly.

You thought you could get by on three hours of sleep. But those three hours turned into two as you inspected, analyzed and cursed Silco's words on continuous loop. They would have mattered less to you if your mind could simply dismiss them as false.

They bite their way through your skin like a corrosive parasite. In the most harmful and disgusting way. You have not been tired enough to ease the awareness that this is truly an issue of immeasurable danger. Your loss, physically and emotionally, represents a gaping weakness into which Silco is pleasurably poking his dirty fingers without neither your consent or control.

You let yourself get carried away. By your hatred, your anger and your grief. But in order to survive on his playing field, you must shield yourself by applying his rules.

You grab your mother's old, faded red scarf from your wardrobe and tie it neatly and like a layer of protection around your head so that only your eyes and nose are exposed.

The temptation to inhale the smell of it deeply to see if it still carries a spark of her soul is strong. So strong that you almost surrender. But you doubt whether you would even recognize her scent and that alone makes you shake off the thought, so you step out of your new room into the tiny corridor instead.

"You're covering ninety percent of your face, and still look like shit", Sevika greets you, arms hidden under her cape, her strong body leaning casually against the wall.

"The sunshine that you are, could you please resist the urge to say the first thing that comes to your mind?"

"Just sayin'", she says, pushing off the wall to lead you to the Last Drop once again. "I saw you bruised and bathed in blood but now you look…dead."

You question whether Sevika is too unempathetic to comprehend that nothing else is to be expected by someone who has lost everything in the past weeks, or if the comment is her way of expressing her concern. Then you lay eyes on her mechanical claw and the purple, with shimmer induced, vessels flash as she yanks the door of the residence open, and the answer is clear: the former must be true.

Today is a particularly humid and gloomy day. The exhaust fumes hang like poisonous fog over the crooked rooftops, swallowing every source of light so it requests the last remains of your focus not to lose track of Sevika's fast and tall figure.

However, Zaun's greatest curse is also a blessing. At least for you. The layer of harmful gases wrap you in a cloak of invisibility, ensuring you to go unnoticed as you pass the few citizens and traders who are awake at this hour instead of sleeping off their rush of the night.

In general, it feels less unnerving wandering the Lanes this time. Either because of the lack of sleep, that robs you of alertness and attention, or because they are indeed less frightening than they appear.

And then you see it. The yellow, neon-colored lights, curved into an eye, as they stubbornly force their way through the fog, attracting glances like little moths.

By the time you reach the red entrance, guarded by four men Sevika's size, the cloth covering your mouth sticks damp to your skin, making breathing even more difficult. It feels exactly like the first time, as she greets them with a nod and forces you both to enter Silco's cruel establishment, with one exception.

The first time, fear paralyzed you. The second time, adrenaline. Now it is also fear and uncertainty–after all you threatened him with a dagger just a few hours ago–but today you're able to identify and tame these distractions.

The place, including the tables and bar is free and quiet at this time of the day, the shrill lights a faded memory of forgotten sin, helping you to collect yourself as you hike up the arduous set of stairs.

Your scarred feet are wrapped in a thick layer of improvised bandages made from a cut-up towel, and yet you feel their protest loudly with every relentless step you take. What drowns out their vociferous protest is, however, Sevika's sharp and annoyed gaze as she waits for your limp body to reach the door of Silco's office as well.

Another second passes and her patience must have been exhausted. She enters the office without knocking and leaves the door, still several meters away from you, wide open.

The needs of your body almost tempt you to take advantage of their moment of ignorance and disappear once and for all. But if it's not Silco's blade at your throat, it will be Finn's, the one of a bounty hunter or an enforcer's barrel. At least this blade provides you with a roof over your head and a job.

You let the shudder of disgust and anger wash over you as you walk through the door, keeping your expression as neutral as possible.

The hopping thing in your chest wants to win over your disguised calmness, but you inhale deeply, and let your gaze glide through the less claustrophobic than expected room. The red paddened sofa swathed in blankets and cushions, the classy, rustic paintings on the walls, the smell of expensive cigars and liquor and the unnecessarily pretentious array of various odds; it all seems to be an extension of Silco's personality. Dangerous, deceptive and designed to stand out.

You finally turn towards his gloomy presence, but first inspect the disorganized pile of papers, documents and plans bathed into the yellow light of the inverted logo of the Last Drop that acts as a large window behind him. Uncle Louis must have cursed this mess every time he was here.

You dismiss the thought with a barely noticeable shake of your head as you turn your gaze to Silco, who is receiving yesterday's blunt report from Sevika.

His eyes touch your body, pushing you to ignore the feelings of scraping stone on your back, before they reach your hidden face, signaling you to remove the scarf with one raised eyebrow. He asks Sevika something about one of his manufactures, but his calculated gaze observes as you reveal your face layer by layer.

It feels inappropriate and deadly to be part of this conversation in which they exchange information back and forth, without acknowledging you. You are sure it's because Sevika could slit your throat before any information seeps through the walls. Or worse: They believe that you are already part of them.

As if you voiced this thought out loud, Silco suddenly raises his hand and Sevika next to you falls silent.

"Get out", he orders.

Your eyes dart between Sevika and him in confusion. "Who?"

"This is an agreement between the two of us. Sevika knows what she needs to know and has no place in this conversation. And now leave."

The latter sentence is addressed with clear determination to the otherwise authoritative woman next to you. His gaze holds a short conversation with her before she nods and leaves the room without objecting.

"You could provide her with more respect", you suggest. It would be better to keep your comments to yourself. You know this. But you could have expressed your disapproval regarding Sevika's inhumane treatment in a more biting way.

He nods to the chair opposite him and you take the seat. "You disregarded my warning."

Do you actually look that awful? Your fingertips graze the tip of the scarf, wishing you could hide your heated cheeks behind the protective cloth.

"I did", you confess.

"Discretion is required. As much as possible", he ties back to your previous advice without addressing it properly.

"Well, she's your right hand. Who can you trust most if not her?"

Then you see it. A wild ravine of unrestrained hatred blazing in his eyes as he runs his hand over the unhealed gashes on his face, lost in thought. The gesture draws your attention to your own blemish on your skin, increasing the tingle in your fingertips to run over the indentation, by which time he has already awoken from his trance.

"If an enforcer eyes you strangely, show him these documents." In keeping with his words, he pulls a certain stack of papers out of the mess and hands them to you.

For a short moment, you see how his fingers continue to wander nervoulsy–no, restlessly–over the wood while his other hand flicks the lighter open and shut in a steady rythm. As if he's trying to cling to the present.

But the paper, heavy and craving your attention, should be the priority, and not any emotional stirring inside this monster.

One paper is a work permit with the Piltover emblem stamped in blue. The other is a limited residence permit valid for exactly two years. The feeling of uplifting freedom settles in your heart.

Soon you will be able to leave and enter this rotten hole at will. For the first time, you will bless your nose by inhaling the pure ocean breeze of the Topsiders. Perhaps your parents-

"Someone will shadow you on the way to the bridge and back", he interrupts your thoughts of ecstasy.

The unconscious smile on your lips is trapped into a thin line by invisible shackles.

"Why not all the way to the academy?"

If you're going to be tied down by supposed security, at least properly.

"I have friends on the other side. Besides, no one will be stupid enough to attack you in Piltover. Not even Finn."

"Is he still looking for me?"

Of course he is looking for you. You just killed one of his people!, your inner voice reprimands you. But your naivety and hope allow you to ignore this fact for a second.

"The bounty remains, but he is aware of the protection you are under. That should keep him quiet."

A wave of disappointment rolls over you, which you attempt to disguise as understanding behind a light nod.

The fire in his eye flares like a warm candle and it looks as if he wants to add something, but then he changes his mind and turns back to business.

"You start every morning at seven and end your shift at four in the afternoon. Contact the receptionist on your first day, they will instruct you with your tasks. You will have to manage the rest on your own."

Your foggy brain is overwhelmed by the number of information but you try to focus on the main issue. "I've never spied before, let alone have any idea what to look for."

Hextech is a relatively new innovation of the Topsiders. Uncle Louis talked briefly to you about it and the miracles it could perform: Flying freighters that could cross continents and seas within minutes due to the Hexgates.

'Magic that can help and benefit humanity', you raved at the time. 'No', Uncle Louis held you back, 'just another weapon on which dozens of wars would break out.'

And he is right. Before, the fire was just a dust of smoke, a glimmer from the distance. And now you are sitting in front of the kingpin of the Undercity, and it threatens to burn you.

"Get to the bottom of what is being concealed. Slip through the door that is most heavily guarded, listen to the silent whispers, the rumors…", a metallic creak sounds as Silco leans back to look at the painted bars above you, "…seduce a professor or student if necessary and loosen their tongue but keep your armor on."

Your hand tightens around the fabric of your pants. First he demands that you take this job to pay off the debt and now he wants you to sell yourself for him? It's easy to convince your mind not to be led by your emotions, but separating your anger from your heart is nearly impossible. Nearly, you repeat, drawing a deep breath.

You need to practice control, recognize the thin veil between provocation and bitter malice. This is just a stupid provocation. In the end, you will be the one to gain power over the way you'll get the information, whether through silence or meaningless coquetry.

"What are you going to do with the information?", you ask dryly. "If you want me to sell myself, I demand to know what grand purpose all of this serves."

You have already seen through his silence as a means of power. A demonstration of your dependency–from his perspective. But you know the truth. If you really were a replaceable commodity, Silco would have certainly killed you after your outburst yesterday. He is just as dependent on you as you are on his protection.

You play willingly along, watching him in silence. He does the same. There's almost something reassuring about the way he rests his arm, fingertips massaging his temple, his gaze calm, possibly confused because you're not forcing him to respond or threatening him with a weapon or the back of your hand for once.

"Freedom", he emphasizes, dreamy hope swimming in the blue-green of his eye. "You're the missing key to all the greatness that awaits the Nation of Zaun."

Little needles prickle under your skin at the force of these words. That must be a new tactic to move you out of your reserve: praise.

You lean back comfortably in the hard chair and interlace your fingers to avoid gnawing at the skin. "And when will you fulfill your part of the bargain? Before or after Finn kills me?"

"After you've proven yourself a liabilty worth bearing."

You want to scream in frustration, grab him by his lithe frame and to make him understand that it could take an eternity until you've proven yourself to him according to his standards. An eternity in the roaring waves, should Finn beat you to it.

"Is that all?"

You sit still. Your face contorted into a blank wall of which no emotion can leak through. Did you ask the question sarcastically regarding his vague reply, or because you want to be ordered to leave?

"No", he responds with determination, clearly believing the second option. "What happened before you killed Renni?"

"What?" Shock and confusion make their way through the cracks of your carefully constructed wall.

Does he know that Finn is also after the hextech gemstones? Did Silco just test your loyalty with the entire conversation? To your defense, you did not lie to him, you simply withheld certain information from him. After all, you can only regain a touch of superiority with face-down cards.

"They didn't say anything", you answer more convinced.

Silco leans forward on his forearms, visibly intent on forcing you into defense. "Did they just took you by suprise and you managed to get out with a bit of luck? What happened before?"

"They searched for me."

"And where have you been hiding?"

"Under Uncle Louis bed."

"Did they mention why they were looking for you?"

"No", you say with a draw of guilt in your stomach. You interrupt the interrogation with a brief pause, swallowing the dry lump, before you continue. "Finn ordered her to search the room while he turned my room upside down. She leaned down and I killed her."

A half-truth after all. The sound of metal through flesh and the dilated panicked green of her eyes threaten to loop you back into an endless spiral of sorrow, as a metallic clang rings out.

"You dropped your dagger yesterday."

You rub the sweat on your palms off before they move towards the dagger in front of your nose, hand already hovering over the handle when Silco snatches it away with one brisk motion.

"I have never seen this dagger on Louis", he states, turning the intact half of his face to the side, red and dark flesh digging into your eyes, index finger running slowly over the blade.

Unease creeps into your stomach. The same bitter feeling you sensed when looking at a patient's irreversible injury. You search for a loose thread in your previous responds that might have subconsciously betrayed and revealed your expanded knowledge. But you have spoken with thought and measuredly.

A glance at Silco's stern appearance proves that he's going to keep you groping in the dark. He comes closer. A breath passes and the weapon is once again presented before you. "The daggers I provide my people with have a claw-like and pointed blade. This one is bent and blunted. I'm sure this one was Renni's, right?"

You have difficulties to see behind his charade, but it would be better to stick as close to the truth as possible.

"Yes", you lie.

The streets are awake. Shouting, bawling and screaming reach you like a warning.

"And how did it end up in your hands?"

You force yourself to believe that you're not in danger, even as his gaze follows the trail from your scar to the pulsating hollow beneath your ear while his fingertips playfully move the knife from left to right, back and forth.

"I overpowered her and took it from her."

You didn't know you'd ever be able to despise a sound wholeheartedly, but when Silco chuckles, cold stone against cold stone, you are proven otherwise.

"No, you didn't. Renni bent down and you killed her. The dagger was already in your possession. Finn would have also noticed and you wouldn't have made it to me in one piece." He releases the dagger, letting it fall onto the wood with a loud bang.

You stupid, stupid idiot! You should have noticed the missing dagger when you left your room at latest. The last few weeks have shown you how present death is, becoming a close friend of yours, and you are still inviting him with open arms.

On the other hand, it is the foolishness of underestimating Silco's level of attentiveness that leaves you in sheepish silence. Who pays attention to the blade of his friends and nemesis? The answer descends before you. Someone who has been betrayed.

"Back then, in the mines, we told us the story of poor Asaka. Are you familiar with it?" Silco's gaze captures you as he places a tumbler in front of him, pouring muddy brown liquid into it.

You shake your head, dazed by the fear you don't want to additionally express through your voice.

"Asaka was a young, naive boy who one day thought he had discovered a speck of gold in the dirt of the coal. He called his friends to share his find with them, but by the time they reached the same spot, it was gone. They told him that the shadows of the mines were playing a joke on him."

You try to envision the tale. Really. But when he places the familiar vial on the desk while supposedly searching for something in his drawer, a shiver of evil foreboding spikes your entire body.

"The next day, his friends continued to dig like slaving dogs. Asaka too at first. But he couldn't get rid of the feeling roaring in his chest. Did he really ignore what could be a sanctuary?" He pulls a silver cigarette case out of the drawer, placing one between his lips before the soft hiss of the lighter fills the otherwise silent room. The vial stays on the desk.

"Asaka slipped away without informing a single soul. It took him a while to find his way, but he eventually recognized the same tunnel that lead him to his treasure. Asaka dug like a madman. Day and night blurred. His hands were bloody and sore. And then…"–he shifted in his chair, creeping closer to blow the stinking smoke in your direction-"a stone hit his head."

The bitter taste of smoke sticks thickly to your palate, almost making you grimace in disgust while you ponder over the information provided. Your gaze shifts from the vial to his dull, calculated face. Provocation or malice?

"All Asaka had to do was tell his friends his location. They wouldn't have wasted the time they could have spent rescuing him by wandering around. Even back then I considered him stupid instead of poor."

You clear your throat, ready to use your voice halfway neutrally. "A really unpleasant ending."

"An ending that could have been avoided", he corrects, pointing his cigarette at you.

Apparently he has spoken in riddles enough. Silco straightens up, palms spread out on the scribbled wood, making it seem as if he's locking you in despite the distance. Your body can't tell the difference either. You feel the heat of the rising smoke on your face, just like you felt his breath on the back of your neck few hours ago.

"I‘ll ask again: How did the dagger end up in your hands?" His commanding tone makes sure to inform you who you're talking to: the ruthless Eye of Zaun.

The intention with which he told Asaka's story becomes clear to you. He knows you're hiding something from him, but not what exactly it is. He wants you to open up to him, the urgency in his brooding eyes speaking of his weakness. But one question remains: Is Silco or Finn the gold that will plunge you to your doom?

"There was another boy with them. Finn killed him and his body dropped on the floor next to me. I took the dagger and killed Renni", you reveal, without exposing the truth entirely.

"Why did Finn kill him?"

"I don't know."

"Finn killed him without a word?"

"He couldn't find me and that made him upset."

"Did they say anything else?"

You bite your tongue, weighing up whether it might be wiser to tell him about the indirect competition. You consider the purple bottle and shake your head, "No".

You will not let him win.

"Lies make beautiful voices ugly, angel. How good that you finally turned to the truth."

You stare into the consuming hell of his eyes, taking note of the way they gleam of suspicion, drawing deep, anxious lines across your face. You focus on them to avoid thinking about how you probably paint the desk red with your blood once he discovers your lie.

"Thank you for the documents", you say, rising from the uncomfortable chair, gripping the papers with all your might. You point to the dagger on his desk. "And my-"

"No", he interrupts. "With Renni's toy, you were just defending yourself." He marches over to you, takes your hand and places something cool and heavy on it.

Your breath catches as the sharp tip, clad in a blood-red handle, digs into your skin.

"With mine, you shall kill."