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Chapter Text

The streets of the Undercity pulsed with muted life, veiled in a smog that clung to every crooked alley and damp brick. Even at dusk, the air felt heavy, thick with the bite of metal and the faint, bitter scent of fumes wafting down from Piltover above. Nyra walked a few steps behind her mother, clutching a frayed cloth bag that swung against her side. Inside were the treasures of her day—a broken brass clasp, a couple of rusted screws, and a chipped pendant she thought her mother might like.

Her mother hadn’t said much during their walk, her sharp gaze fixed ahead, wary of every shifting shadow. It was a look Nyra knew well, and sometimes when her mother’s face was half-lit by the uneven glow of the street lamps, Nyra felt like she was peering into her own future. Her mother’s tension felt heavy, pressing down like a weight across Nyra’s small shoulders, and she tried to ignore it. It was simply life in the Lanes, as familiar as the flickering lights and slick cobblestones beneath her boots.

“Nyra,” her mother’s voice broke the silence, brittle but edged with something like hope. Nyra looked up, her small lips twitching into a hopeful smile, a gesture that once upon a time had belonged to her father. “What did you bring today?”

Nyra opened her bag, tilting it so her mother could see. “I thought maybe we could sell some of it,” she murmured, her voice quiet but eager. “Or… maybe you’d like to keep the pendant?”

Her mother’s face softened as she reached out, fingers hovering over the tiny, cracked pendant as if she were considering it. She sighed, letting her hand fall with a hint of frustration, eyes flicking away from the charm. Nyra caught the way her mother’s mouth pressed into that tight line—an expression Nyra knew was as familiar to her own face as it was to her mother’s.

“Nyra,” she muttered, shaking her head, “it’s not worth much. You’re supposed to find things we can use or sell, not…” Her words hung in the air, stinging as she trailed off, but her voice was barely a whisper, and Nyra’s smile faded.

For a long moment, her mother looked down at her, something like regret flickering across her eyes, so reminiscent of Nyra’s own, wide and dark with thought. Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again as though searching for words. Then, in a quiet burst, she wrapped her arms around Nyra, pulling her close, clutching her tightly. Her embrace was fierce and unsteady, like she wanted to hold her close and keep her away all at once.

“I’m sorry,” her mother murmured, voice rough. She knelt down, cradling Nyra’s face in her hands, fingers trembling slightly as she brushed her thumb across Nyra’s cheek, lingering on the curve she knew so well. “You’re good, you know that? It’s good you’re trying. I just… I just want you to have more. Better.”

Nyra nodded, blinking away the ache in her chest as she met her mother’s gaze. She wanted her mother’s love, even if it came wrapped in shadows and regret. She would take it all.

As her mother let her go, her eyes flickered with something else—a faraway glint, a memory that Nyra could almost see there, one that had always lived between them like a ghost. When her mother looked at her this way, Nyra sometimes wondered if she saw someone else.

“One day,” her mother murmured, her voice a murmur almost to herself, “you’ll be free of this. Far from here. Someday, you’ll find a life better than the Trenches. Better than anything this place can give you.”

Nyra nodded again, though she barely understood what her mother meant. She only knew that her mother’s dreams were important, and she’d do anything to make her proud.

“Come on, let’s head to Benzo’s,” her mother said, her voice lighter now, as though that single moment of hope was enough to wash away the edges of regret.

They walked together down the twisted alleys, side by side, Nyra’s small hand resting in her mother’s as they made their way deeper into the heart of the Lanes, where the faint glow of Benzo’s shop beckoned through the mist.

After winding through the narrow alleys, Nyra and her mother arrived at Benzo’s shop, a small space crowded with scrap parts, clock gears, and shelves piled high with half-working gadgets that rattled faintly with the vibrations of the Undercity. A dim, warm light spilled from the door, casting a welcoming glow onto the cracked cobblestones.

The door creaked as they entered, and Benzo’s voice rumbled out from behind a stack of crates. “Who do we have here?” he greeted, his eyes twinkling as he spotted Nyra. “If it isn’t my favorite little scavenger!”

Nyra’s cheeks flushed with pride as Benzo ambled over, his hulking figure casting shadows across the shop. He ruffled her hair with a hand big enough to cover her entire head, and she beamed, clutching her bag a little tighter. Her mother watched from behind, her expression softening in gratitude as Benzo reached down and tilted the bag so he could see what treasures Nyra had found.

“What do we have here?” he murmured, carefully picking up the broken pendant. The metal had dulled, and one edge was chipped, but he looked at it as though it were a precious find. “Not bad at all.” He reached into his pocket and fished out a tiny brass coin, handing it to her with a knowing wink.

Nyra’s eyes lit up as she took the coin, clutching it tightly in her hand. It was more than a payment; it was a small glimmer of encouragement—one she often wished her mother gave more freely. She looked back at her mother, who offered a faint, approving nod, her eyes meeting Benzo’s with a silent thanks.

As Benzo leaned over to examine another one of Nyra’s finds, she noticed a small figure peeking around the corner of a broken clock—bright, curious eyes that watched her intently. She met the gaze of a tiny boy with a mess of white hair and wide, observant eyes. He was probably just a little younger than her, but there was something knowing in the way he looked at her, like he could see every detail, every fleck of dirt and glint of metal that clung to her.

They stared at each other for a moment, both hesitant, before the boy offered a small, shy smile. Nyra felt her own lips tugging upward in response, and she returned his smile just as tentatively.

“Ekko!” Benzo’s voice broke the silence as he glanced over his shoulder. “Get over here, don’t be shy.”

The boy—Ekko—scurried forward, looking at Nyra with a mixture of wonder and shyness. But before she could say anything, her mother gently tugged her hand. “We should get going,” she said, her voice soft but firm.

Nyra nodded, glancing back at Ekko one last time as her mother led her toward the door. She clutched the coin in her hand, warmth filling her chest from the kindness Benzo had shown her. She gave the boy one last smile as they slipped out of the shop and back into the cool, dim night of the Lanes.

As they made their way home, her mother’s grip on her hand loosened slightly, and Nyra could feel a faint hope stirring in her heart. It wasn’t much—a single coin, a small kindness—but for now, it was enough.

The walk home was a quiet one, punctuated only by the muffled clamor of the Undercity around them. Nyra kept close to her mother’s side, her tiny fingers wrapped in Mara’s tight grip. She recognized her mother’s silence today—not the soft kind that came when she was thinking, but the sharper kind, one that set a tension to her mother’s shoulders.

Their door was in sight when Mara halted suddenly, her gaze falling to the folded paper slipped under the threshold. Nyra felt her mother’s fingers tighten around hers, her hand jerking as if she’d been startled. Without a word, Mara pulled the letter free, tucking it inside her cloak before casting a wary glance over her shoulder. She ushered Nyra through the door, closing it quickly behind them and locking it with one quick twist.

Nyra watched as Mara unfolded the letter with trembling hands. She could see her mother’s eyes skimming the lines, widening with each word as she read. An unsteady breath escaped her, and then, without warning, a strangled sound broke from her lips—a choked gasp of something so fierce and fevered that Nyra felt herself shrink back.

Mara's hands, clenching the letter, began to shake, not with fear, but with an excitement that bordered on something wild and raw. Her lips parted, her eyes gleaming in the dim light of their small, cramped room. For a moment, Nyra glimpsed something almost unrecognizable in her mother’s expression—a light, a hunger that sent a shiver up Nyra’s spine.

With a sudden, jerking movement, Mara crumpled the letter and rushed to a drawer by the bed. She yanked it open, rifling through its few belongings with a frenzy that was almost frantic, knocking aside a tin can, a cracked mirror, and an old lace scrap, oblivious to the mess scattering across the floor.

Nyra stood motionless, watching as her mother dug deeper, hands searching for something at the very back. Her fingers finally found it—a tarnished locket, worn and faded, hidden carefully beneath layers of fabric. Mara’s fingers closed around it, drawing it out with a delicate reverence that contrasted sharply with the feverish light in her eyes.

Mara’s face softened as she looked at the locket, holding it between her fingers as though it were something precious, something alive. The wild gleam in her gaze sharpened, her lips curving into a soft, almost reverent smile.

For a moment, she forgot herself, caught in whatever thought the letter and locket had stirred in her. But then her gaze flicked back to Nyra, and the fevered expression softened, melting into a fierce warmth. She took a shaky breath, her hands reaching out to pull Nyra close, sinking to her knees so she could cradle her daughter’s face in her hands.

As Mara held Nyra close, she whispered a litany of promises against her daughter’s hair, words Nyra could barely make out yet felt as a steady rhythm—a cadence of something more profound. But underneath her mother’s gentle coos, Nyra could sense a quiver in Mara’s voice, a barely concealed spark of something almost gleeful. It felt unlike anything she had seen from her mother before.

Nyra’s gaze drifted to the crumpled letter that her mother had tossed aside. The edge of the paper peeked out from under the bed, nearly forgotten in her mother’s rush. If she squinted, she could almost make out smudged ink marks where her mother’s fingers had clutched it too tightly, nearly tearing the parchment.

“Momma?” she murmured, pulling back just enough to look into her mother’s face.

Mara blinked, as though waking from a dream, her intense expression melting into something softer. She gave a small, shivering laugh and cupped Nyra’s cheek with one hand, the other still clutching the locket she had retrieved from the drawer. Nyra glanced down, catching sight of the locket’s worn silver, its surface dulled with age and tarnished by time, but lovingly polished at the edges where her mother’s fingers had caressed it over and over, as though it held something precious within.

The locket dangled between them, and as Nyra’s small lips curled into a quiet, inquisitive smile, Mara followed her gaze to the piece of jewelry. Her fingers brushed its surface reverently, her lips twitching in a rare, almost wistful smile. She opened the locket slowly, and Nyra caught a glimpse of the tiny portrait within—a man with familiar features, though softer, etched with a warmth Nyra recognized as her own.

“My Nyra,” Mara whispered, voice laced with a mix of wonder and something almost fierce. Her hand tightened around the locket, as though holding it could call forth memories of happier days—days that now hung on the edge of her words, unsaid but fully alive in her eyes.

Something was gleaming there, a strange light that Nyra didn't understand, something electric and pulsing. It frightened her a little, the way her mother’s eyes seemed to glow with an eagerness that seemed larger than the cramped walls of their home. Mara gently closed the locket, her thumb brushing over the clasp with a reverence that Nyra didn’t yet know was for the life Mara had once dreamed of—and the one she was still determined to reclaim, no matter the cost.

“One day, Nyra,” she whispered, her fingers sliding through her daughter’s hair. “One day soon.”

She held her daughter close again, and Nyra closed her eyes, comforted by her mother’s warmth even as an unfamiliar chill crept into the small room, swirling around them like a shadowed promise.

After a long while of holding her, Mara loosened her grip, her eyes softening as she looked down at Nyra. “It’s time to get you ready for bed, my little siren,” she murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair back from Nyra’s forehead.

Nyra gave a sleepy nod and slipped off her mother’s lap, padding quietly to the washbasin where she dipped her fingers into the cool water and scrubbed at her teeth as best she could. She felt her mother’s watchful gaze from across the room as she rinsed and dried her hands on the edge of her shirt, a small smile tugging at her lips. Despite the strange energy that had gripped her mother tonight, there was something comforting about the way her mother’s eyes lingered on her, as if anchoring her to the present.

When she was finished, Nyra climbed back into bed, snuggling down beside Mara, who pulled the blanket up around them. Her mother wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close, and Nyra breathed in the familiar scent of earth and smoke that clung to her mother’s clothes. For a moment, they lay there in silence, the only sounds those of their quiet breathing and the faint hum of activity from the lanes outside.

Mara stroked Nyra’s hair gently, her fingers soothing and rhythmic. “Sing for me, little siren,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Just a little, to lull us both to sleep.”

Nyra’s eyes fluttered open, meeting her mother’s tired gaze, and she offered a small, shy nod. She closed her eyes again, took a steadying breath, and began to hum softly, the melody a familiar lullaby, one she had woven together from fragments of tunes her mother had sung to her when she was very small. The tune came out delicate and uncertain at first, barely a whisper. But as her mother’s fingers traced soft patterns along her arm, Nyra’s voice grew stronger, filling the small room with a sound that was fragile yet steady, a song as quiet as the night itself.

Her mother sighed contentedly, her eyes drifting shut as Nyra’s voice swept over her like a gentle wave. And for a moment, with Nyra’s soft song in her ears and the warmth of her daughter’s little body beside her, Mara let herself imagine the future she dreamed of—a future just beyond the reach of her tired hands, a future that she was certain would soon be within her grasp.

Nyra continued to sing, her voice a gentle thread that bound them together, her melody weaving comfort and promises that only a child’s song could carry. And as her mother’s breathing slowed beside her, Nyra’s song softened to a hum, her own eyes growing heavy. Eventually, she drifted off to sleep, her voice fading into silence, her small form wrapped in the safety of her mother’s arms.

Chapter Text

In the dim morning light of the undercity, Nyra blinked awake to the familiar emptiness of the room. Her mother’s side of the bed was already cool, the blanket tossed aside, and Nyra’s small fingers instinctively reached out to pat the empty space. She knew her mother had left hours ago, as she did each morning, to work down in the fissures where a layer of grit and dust clung to everything and a strange, sickly fog settled over the workers.

Yawning, Nyra pushed herself up and shuffled over to the small cupboard in the corner. She rummaged through the few items left, her eyes scanning the near-empty shelves. There were remnants of dried beans in a small sack and a hardened piece of cheese, barely worth the name anymore, which she pocketed for later. She knew her mother would return from the fissures exhausted, too weary to eat or talk much, but maybe tonight she could tempt her into a few bites.

With careful steps, she moved to the cupboard her mother kept locked. Nyra traced her fingers along its edge, biting her lip. Behind that lock was her mother’s most precious possession: a tarnished locket that held a tiny portrait of her father. Nyra knew the picture was worn and faded from her mother’s many tearful gazes, but she still longed to look upon it herself, to see the face of the man she only knew through brief glimpses of faded photographs locked away in the cupboard and her mother’s scattered tales.

But Mara never let her see it. “One day, Nyra,” her mother would say with a sad, distant look, her hands brushing Nyra’s hair. “One day, you’ll know him as I do.”

Nyra tugged at the lock anyway, testing it even though she knew it would hold. Her fingers drifted to the worn paper her mother had tucked under the cupboard last week—the strange note. She picked it up and stared at the words, her eyes searching the unfamiliar letters, her curiosity sharp and unyielding. She felt the faint edges of frustration. She could make sense of street signs and simple symbols from the lanes, but these shapes meant nothing to her. Her mother had never taught her letters or numbers; they were secrets, something Nyra could only guess at.

With a sigh, she set the note down. There was no use in trying to decipher it, and she could already hear her mother’s gentle rebuke if she caught her handling the note.

“You’re just like your father, poking around like that,” Mara would say, trying to sound cross but never quite managing it, her words softened by a smile.

Shaking herself free from her thoughts, Nyra grabbed her small satchel, worn but reliable, and slung it over her shoulder. She headed out into the undercity, her bare feet familiar with the grit and grime of the narrow lanes. Today was scrapping day—a chance for her to explore the alleys, and maybe even uncover a trinket or two her mother would admire.

As she wandered, Nyra’s keen eyes picked out the glint of small, overlooked items. She found a rusted tin, too worn to use but still interesting, and slipped it into her satchel. She collected odd bits of metal, a half-broken cog, a shard of colored glass that sparkled faintly in the low light. Each piece made her think of what her mother might say if she wasn’t too tired tonight. Sometimes, when the sickness wasn’t as bad, her mother would smile faintly, running her fingers over Nyra’s treasures and calling her a “little magpie.” Those nights were rare, but Nyra gathered all the same, carrying on with a quiet hope she never let herself say out loud.

As she scavenged, her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since last night. She searched a bit longer until her hand closed around a stale piece of bread hidden behind a heap of discarded cloth. Her face brightened at the discovery. “Jackpot,” she whispered to herself, carefully tucking the bread into her satchel.

With her small bag of findings and her stale bread treasure, Nyra headed back home. She climbed back up to their small flat, her bare feet silent on the rickety wooden stairs, and slipped inside. The light was dim, the room shadowed and quiet, with no trace of her mother yet.

Nyra emptied her satchel, laying out her small treasures on the table beside the meager supplies from the cupboard. She sliced the cheese, tried to soften the bread with a few drops of water, and arranged the bits into what she hoped would be a meal for her mother. Nyra knew her mother would be exhausted, maybe even too weak to eat, but it made Nyra feel good to prepare something, even if it wasn’t much.

As she waited, Nyra thought back on her mother’s stories. Mara’s words, whispered like secrets in the dark, were all Nyra knew of the world beyond these grim lanes. Sometimes, when her mother was in one of her rare good moods, she’d speak of the land she came from, a harsh place called Noxus, with its rugged, powerful people and endless stretches of red earth. But the stories Nyra loved most were the ones about her father—the softness in her mother’s voice when she spoke of his eyes, or the way he’d looked at her on the day they met. Nyra clung to these stories like lifelines, gathering each one like a scrap of treasure to build a picture of the man she could barely imagine.

On other nights, Mara would drift into stories of Janna, the wind spirit, whispering tales of the mysterious force that guarded and protected those in need. Nyra sometimes thought her mother might be telling those stories as much to herself as to Nyra, clinging to the idea that something in this grim underworld might still be watching over them.

As Nyra waited, she settled on the bed with a clear view of the front door, occasionally glancing at the locked cupboard, wondering if tonight might be the night she’d finally get to see the pendant.

Having been lulled to sleep by the undercity's neverending noise, Nyra stirred awake to the clattering sound of the door slamming open. Her mother’s figure, hunched and ragged, filled the frame as she stumbled inside, clutching a heavy, unfamiliar bag to her chest. Nyra blinked, eyes bleary, as she watched her mother close the door with a low, fierce laugh that rippled through the silence, and it set Nyra’s heart pounding.

“Mom?” she whispered, rubbing her eyes and sitting up on the bed. Her mother didn’t answer; she barely seemed to notice Nyra, her eyes fixed on the contents of the worn leather bag as she crossed the room and set it on the floor with a muted thud. Nyra slid off the bed and approached slowly, still tangled in sleep but already sensing something was wrong.

“Mama?” Nyra repeated, her voice a little louder this time.

Mara turned her head, eyes blazing with an intensity that made Nyra take a cautious step back. There was something frantic in her expression, a feverish light Nyra had only seen a few times before—whenever the sickness had its worst hold on her mother. Mara’s lips twisted into a strange, distant smile as she rummaged through the bag, her hands pulling out strange, mismatched items: tattered cloths, shards of metal, and something small and heavy that glinted coldly in the dim light. Nyra saw the shape of it just for a moment—a handle, sharp-edged and deadly-looking—and her heart clenched.

“What’s that?” she whispered, staring at the metal. But her mother ignored her, almost as if she hadn’t heard.

Nyra swallowed, her small voice growing urgent. “Mama, what’s in the bag?” She crept closer, her eyes wide with worry, watching as her mother gripped the cold, glinting metal so tight her knuckles turned white. Nyra couldn’t understand why her mother looked… thrilled. She’d never seen her like this, her fingers trembling as they brushed over the items she’d collected, her face alive with that strange, intense energy.

“Mama, what are you doing?” Nyra’s voice cracked, half-begging, a small sob hitching in her throat. “Why won’t you talk to me?” She took another step, reaching out, her fingers brushing her mother’s sleeve.

Mara jerked her arm away sharply, turning to face Nyra with a look that was both soft and painfully fierce. “Nyra, go to bed,” she said in a low, quiet voice, her eyes narrowing just a little, as if daring Nyra to protest. “Tomorrow… tomorrow is going to be the day the undercity remembers. Everything will change. It’s the day we finally take our fate back from those Piltover dogs.”

Nyra blinked, struggling to keep the tears from spilling over. She didn’t understand. Her mother’s words felt heavy, filled with meanings she couldn’t begin to grasp. She only knew that there was something dangerous in her mother’s tone, something far beyond the tired, gentle woman who’d raised her.

“Why, Mama?” Nyra whispered, her voice quivering. “Why do you have to go fight? You can barely walk, and the sickness—” She clamped her mouth shut, sensing that even mentioning it would upset her mother further. But the words had already slipped out.

Her mother’s face softened for just a moment, the harsh edge fading from her eyes, and she reached out to brush a stray hair from Nyra’s cheek. “One day, little siren, you’ll understand why I have to do this.” She squeezed Nyra’s hand, her fingers rough and calloused. “I’m doing it for you. For all the children like you who deserve more than scraps.”

“But…” Nyra’s voice faltered, her thoughts tangled and too big for her to untangle. But I just want you, Mama, she thought desperately, biting back her words. “Please, Mama,” she pleaded instead, her voice so small it was barely a whisper. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Her mother pulled away, standing stiffly, her shoulders tense and unyielding. “Get ready for bed, Nyra,” she said with a tone of finality that told Nyra the conversation was over. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”

Swallowing down her protests, Nyra nodded and went to her small corner of the bed, tucking herself beneath the worn blanket, her heart twisting painfully.

Nyra lay curled under the thin blanket, watching her mother with an aching feeling in her chest. The room felt strange, cast in shadows by the weak light that struggled to seep through the cracks in their walls. Her mother was murmuring to herself again, her voice lilting with strange, unsettling excitement as she pulled strange objects from the bag and lined them up on the table like some twisted set of treasures.

Despite the confusion and the fear twisting in Nyra's stomach, she pressed her cheek into the pillow, focusing instead on the feeling of safety that had always grounded her. For all the things her mother had become—the sickness, the odd bouts of harshness and silence, the way she’d sometimes grip Nyra’s arm too tight and say words that stung and left bruises deeper than the marks on her skin—she was still hers. That was something no one else in the lanes could claim. The other children she’d seen at Benzo’s or in the alleys near the fissures, half-wild and parentless, could only dream of what she had. Even if their love was rough around the edges, Mara was her mother.

Nyra clutched her blanket tightly, holding onto that thought. She could hear her mother’s low muttering and the soft clink of metal as she moved through the room, and a small, stubborn part of Nyra held onto the memory of gentler days. Her mother might be tired, sometimes too sick to even stand straight after work, but she came back to Nyra every day. She was hers, and Nyra’s love for her was fierce and defiant, something she’d never let go of—no matter how strange and lost her mother sometimes became.

As she lay there, Nyra’s heart filled with a painful kind of pride. Her mother was sick and scarred, and maybe she had dreams of things Nyra couldn’t understand, but she was still there, with Nyra, however dark or dangerous the lanes became. Not many children in the undercity could say that. And for that, Nyra would forgive anything.

One day, she thought fiercely, I’ll make Mama see that she doesn’t have to fight for anything. She doesn’t need to change the world for me to love her.

Her eyes grew heavy, her small fingers clutching the blanket even as her thoughts began to slip into dreams. She tried to keep the image of her mother’s face—so alive with that strange light, so different yet so familiar—tucked in her mind, the memory of gentler nights mingling with her fears and hopes. Eventually, sleep took her, as if carrying her into a world where her mother would be just as she remembered: warm, loving, and hers.

Chapter Text

Nyra woke with a hard knot of resolve in her chest, heavier than anything she’d felt before. Today was all she had to keep her mother close, all she had to keep her mother from whatever danger she had planned. Her mother wasn’t the strongest, and she certainly wasn’t the most loved, but she was hers. That was more than most children in the Undercity could claim.

With this determination warming her small, fragile body, Nyra thought fast, slipping into a small cough before nudging her mother awake. “Mama, I… I don’t feel too well,” she murmured, pressing a hand to her forehead in feigned sickness. She watched her mother’s eyes sharpen, if only for a moment, before they softened into worry.

“Oh, my little siren… why didn’t you say so last night?” her mother whispered, pulling Nyra close, her fingers trembling as they brushed through Nyra’s hair. It was enough of a distraction for now, but Nyra knew her mother’s thoughts would soon turn back to the plans she’d been muttering about for days, plans that had crept into her mother’s mind and stolen her sleep.

Nyra nestled closer, making her voice small and plaintive. “Will you stay with me today, Mama? Just… just in case it’s a fever? You always make me feel better when you’re here.”

Her mother paused, clearly torn, but Nyra kept up her steady gaze, letting her mother’s hesitation linger until it softened her enough to keep her close.

The hours slid by slowly, and whenever her mother began to drift, muttering about “the fight tonight” and other things Nyra couldn’t understand, she sprang into action with small tricks or suggestions for chores they could do together. She led her mother through cleaning the dusty shelves, rearranging the meager things they had, finding new places for every broken cup and trinket. When her mother’s focus began to slip again, Nyra performed tricks with coins or practiced balancing old plates on her head, anything that could pull her mother’s attention back to the present.

By the time evening began to settle over the Trenches, Nyra’s energy had started to wane, but she could still feel her mother’s tension, growing thicker with each passing hour. She watched her mother’s face with a knot of dread tightening in her own chest, seeing a hard, glassy look return to her mother’s eyes.

Finally, as shadows deepened over the room, her mother took a deep breath and knelt down in front of her, eyes bright and fierce.

“Stay home tonight, Nyra,” she instructed, her voice filled with strange excitement. “When I return, your future will be set. You’ll have all that you deserve.”

Nyra’s heart twisted with fear as her mother left, shutting the door firmly behind her. She ran to it, yanking on the handle, but found it locked tight. Panic began to rise in her, and she beat on the door, calling for her mother, begging her to come back. When no answer came, Nyra’s fists fell silent, and her gaze shifted to the cracked window they never used, barely hanging on its rusted hinges.

Determination flooded her once more as she climbed onto a chair and pried at the window, wrenching it open inch by inch until, with a final shudder, it gave way. She slipped through, slinking into the chill of the evening air, landing hard on the other side. Her heart pounded, but she gritted her teeth, ignoring the scrapes on her knees as she crept through the streets, following the path her mother would have taken, darting between shadows and staying low to the ground.

The closer she got to the bridge, the more rubble and broken cobblestones she began to see, scattered along the path like fallen stones from a tomb. When she finally climbed up onto the rooftops for a clearer view, she froze. The Bridge of Progress stretched before her, covered in smoke, its edges barely visible. Nyra’s heart raced as she scanned the bridge, making out faint, ghostly silhouettes in the mist, bodies and movement she couldn’t yet understand.

She scrambled down from the roof, scraping her hands on the rough stones, but she barely noticed the sting. Nyra’s heart pounded as she crept closer, her eyes scanning through the thick smoke that permeated the air. In the chaos of crumbled stone and metal, she held onto a small, fierce hope that her mother would be alive, safe somehow, just out of sight. She clutched at it desperately, imagining her mother would come through the smoke, rushing to take her hand, and they would run—run away from this place, away from the Trenches, and find a life somewhere far from all this hurt and dirt. She imagined her mother’s arms around her, steady and warm, and she could almost taste the memory of her mother’s best meal—something warm and soft that was made just for her, and hear her mother’s voice, the way it used to sing, bright and sure, like the promise of the wind. Just the two of them. Safe. Free. She bent down and her hands blindly ran over the ground, finding purchase on a small, sharp rock. Her fingers tightened around the rock she’d picked up. She told herself fiercely that they could still be happy, that there would be no more long, lonely days, no more secrets and muttering in the dark. Maybe… maybe her mother would teach her to sing properly, the way she used to before her work in the Fissures turned her voice tired and her words thin. Nyra could already see it in her mind: the two of them, far from here, laughing under some clean, bright sky, her mother’s voice strong again as they sang together. But as she neared the bridge, these soft, trembling hopes started to fade, overtaken by the smell of smoke and blood and the cries that scattered through the fog.

Then, from somewhere close by, she heard a faint, haunting melody drifting through the mist. The voice was small but clear, singing a song that struck something deep inside her:

“Dear friend across the river,
My hands are cold and bare…”

Nyra’s gaze followed the sound until she saw them: two young girls, the older one with bright pink hair, clutching the hand of a smaller girl with blue hair. They stood silently, their eyes fixed on a figure in the shadows—a large, hulking man who towered over a fallen enforcer, his iron-clad fists red with blood. Nyra’s breath caught as she watched him gesture toward a couple lying still on the ground, the same cold, final stillness that surrounded the bridge.

The pink-haired girl let out a broken, shuddering cry as she realized the truth, collapsing to her knees. The younger girl, her tiny face wracked with confusion, began to cry, clinging to her sister’s side. Nyra’s heart ached at the sight, and her mind raced with a sudden, urgent thought—her mother.

She tore her gaze away from the girls and crept further into the smoke, her fingers digging into the small stone she held, desperate to find her mother and to bring her back safely. Suddenly, she heard a familiar, broken scream cut through the din, and her blood ran cold. She rushed toward the sound, her pulse pounding in her ears until she finally saw her: her mother, held aloft by a massive enforcer, his hand wrapped tightly around her throat.

Without thinking, Nyra let out a scream of her own and charged at him, striking his leg with her stone as hard as she could. He growled, swatting her to the ground with a knife-equipped hand, and she crawled back, desperate and determined. She swiped at his ankle with her rock, drawing blood, but in a fury, he kicked her away.

Nyra watched in horror as he tightened his grip, twisting her mother’s neck with a sickening snap. Her mother’s body fell limp, dropping to the ground as he tossed her aside like a broken doll.

Nyra tried to let out a scream as she scrambled forward, crawling through her tears, barely noticing the deep cut on her own neck where his blade had grazed her. Tears blurred her vision as she reached her mother’s side, feeling a deep, crushing stillness that she couldn’t fully understand. Her hands, trembling and slick with her own blood, found her mother’s pocket, grasping the locket that held her father’s picture. She clutched it tightly, feeling its cold metal pressing into her palm, her mind fading, slipping into darkness as she pressed herself to her mother’s side.

The last thing she felt was the weight of the locket in her hand, the faint sense of warmth as a shadow moved over her, lifting her, carrying her away into the night.

Chapter Text

She lay there, crumpled and silent, as small as any of the rats that lurked around here. He watched her, waiting for some sign—anything that would prove he wasn’t wasting his time. But she only lay there, chest barely moving, eyes closed. The scrawny kid hadn’t made a sound since he’d dragged her here from the bridge, and he almost turned away, figuring she’d never wake. But then, a faint, hoarse whisper slipped from her throat, a release of air almost too soft to hear. It wasn’t a word, just a sound, weak and fragile, but it was enough.

The man straightened and crossed his arms, eyeing the kid on the cot with a mix of irritation and faint surprise. Two weeks she’d been here, delirious with pain. Somehow, despite it all, she was still hanging on.

He leaned forward, his voice low and brusque. “Don’t try to talk. You’ll tear the wound open.” His words were met with wild, unfocused eyes. She looked young and terrified, glancing around the bare room like a caged animal.

Nyra’s eyes adjusted, taking in her surroundings: the small cot beneath her, the single bed on the far side, the rough, undecorated walls. The space was dimly lit, barely more than a hideout for a lonely person, yet somehow still warmer than the night on the bridge, the cold stone, the terror. Her fingers drifted instinctively to the bandages on her throat, her mouth already forming silent questions.

She looked over the stranger whose house she was currently in - he towered over Nyra like a mountain, a man built from muscle and iron, with scars that seemed to tell a dozen life stories. One deep, ragged scar ran diagonally across his face, slashing through his left eye—a dead, milky orb that seemed to stare past her, while his other eye, cerulean and sharp, tracked her every move with a steady, unflinching gaze. His jaw was set in a permanent scowl, shadowed by a layer of stubble that might never fully grow out due to old burns across his cheek and neck.

His right hand had two fingers made of tarnished metal, gleaming faintly in the dim light whenever he flexed them. They moved with a mechanical click that added to the air of cold efficiency around him. The man's clothes were worn but utilitarian: a thick, weathered leather coat reinforced with patches of armor, and a steel-studded belt weighed down with tools and blades, each one placed with purpose. Slung diagonally across his chest was a worn bandolier, each pouch holding a different vial of strange, murky liquids—concoctions he’d created or collected, potent brews meant for healing, poisoning, or worse - Nyra didn't even want to think about it. The faintly glowing liquids pulsed within their containers, almost alive, sending a chill across Nyra’s skin—she had never seen such peculiar concoctions.

Despite his grim and scarred exterior, there was a strange calmness to him—an eerie silence to his movements, as though he was at once both predator and protector. And though he looked like the kind of man who’d faced death more times than he could count, he stood there in front of her with a strange, conflicted expression, watching her in a way that was somehow wary.

The man leaned against the doorframe, his expression hardened as he watched her frantic movements. “Calm down,” he grumbled. “You were pretty banged up when I found you. Had a wound on your neck deep enough that you’re lucky you only lost your voice.” He glanced at her bandages, his gaze assessing before turning cold again. “Don’t mess with those. They’ll need changing in an hour.”

Nyra’s breaths came faster, her panic intensifying as his words sank in. She tried to form words, mouthing them silently. Mom? Where’s my mom? Her hands shot up to her throat, clawing at the bandages in desperation.

In two heavy strides, the man was over her, grabbing her wrists firmly. “Stop that.” His voice had a harsh edge, a barely contained frustration. “You’ll just make it worse.”

The room tilted as her mother’s face slammed into her mind—a memory so vivid she almost saw her standing there. Her mother’s smile, the sound of her laugh—all of it crashed over her, sapping her of air, rendering any other thought useless and before she could think, she was out of the cot, stumbling past the man, ignoring the burning pain that shot through her body as she pushed through the door and into the night.

------
Nyra bolted from the unfamiliar home she found herself in, her breath coming in rapid, panicked bursts. The dilapidated buildings around her seemed to close in, each darkened corner holding unseen threats. She stumbled down the cracked street, her feet slapping against the damp stone, when she noticed it looming in the near distance—the road leading to the Dredge.

The prison walls stood stark against the darkened horizon, their jagged silhouette casting long shadows across the alleyways. The Dredge wasn’t just a prison; it was a dumping ground for the worst criminals the Undercity had to offer, a place where the city’s most violent and volatile were locked away, forgotten. She had heard stories, half-whispered rumors of what went on inside, tales that made her shiver even in the safety of her mother’s arms. And now, here it was, standing like a terrible reminder of what could await anyone who strayed too far from safety.

Her gaze lingered on its iron bars and bolted doors, an unyielding testament to the darkness of her city. She could almost hear the echoes of the imprisoned streaming in from deep below the ground, filtering through the cold night air, and mixing with her silent cries. She forced herself to look away, her legs shaking as she tried to push the Dredge from her mind, but its presence clung to her—a threat and a promise, all at once.

With one last glance over her shoulder, she turned and ran again, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the prison, a more pressing matter lighting a fire under her feet.

----

Nyra sprinted through the alleys, her heart pounding as she searched desperately for something familiar. Every street was a blur of shadows, and she stumbled more than once, pain radiating from her still-healing wounds. Her throat burned, and her breath came in ragged bursts, but she forced herself onward. Home. Just let me see home.

Finally, she recognized the street, its crooked lanterns casting familiar pools of light over the broken cobblestones. Her pace quickened, her mind clinging to the hope that maybe, somehow, she could find her mother there, waiting. She reached her house, skidding to a halt, only for the last shred of her hope to shatter.

The door hung crookedly on one hinge, ripped open and left to rot. Shadows stretched across the empty space where the warmth of home had once been. Stepping inside, Nyra’s eyes took in the destruction. The small apartment had been looted, gutted down to the last splinter. Her drawings—the ones she’d made just for her mother—were scattered across the floor, torn and crumpled as if they’d meant nothing. Her mother’s bed lay in pieces, crushed and splintered, as though someone had taken out a drunken rage on the wood.

The only thing left untouched was a small metal chair in the corner, her own, worn from use but too heavy for looters to bother with. The chair was scuffed and dull, its edges worn smooth from years of use. Her deceased father had made it for her, forging it from old Noxian metal at a time when things had been better - a time when her mother was plump with pregnancy, happily married in a small Noxian settlement. Before her father died at the hands of followers of the old Noxian regime, the old religion. Before her mother was cast out, forced to flee and seek shelter in Piltover, baring the long trek in her pregnant state, only to be denied refuge by the people up above and forced to live for scraps with the outcasts down below.

Nyra’s chest tightened as she sank to her knees, crawling toward the chair and reaching out to touch it, her fingers grazing the cold metal. She closed her eyes, leaning her head against the edge, and felt her shoulders begin to shake as the tears she’d held back poured out, silent and desperate.

Please. Please come back. The words echoed in her mind, over and over. Mom, please.

She was so lost in her grief, in her silent plea to a world that had taken everything, that she barely noticed the footsteps stumbling through the broken doorway. A hunched, ragged figure lurched into the room, eyes squinting with the bleary belligerence of someone who’d had too much to drink. He spotted her and scowled, his voice slurred and thick with resentment.

“Oi, you got no right 'ere, kid. This is my turf now.” He staggered forward, his fists curling. “Finder’s keepers.”

Nyra backed away, hiding behind the chair as though it could shield her. The man stepped closer, his expression darkening, and she turned, bolting past him, ignoring the pain flaring in her legs and neck. She didn’t stop running until she’d put blocks between herself and the ghost of her home and left behind every piece of that shattered life.

----

By the time she stopped, she found herself at the edge of a cliff, with a clear view of the dark ruins below. Her heart hammered, her breaths came in shuddering gasps, and she felt utterly alone, adrift in a city that seemed intent on breaking her. A ragged windmill stood in front of her, jutting out of the darkness beneath her feet, a neon light in the shape of an eye adorning its peak.

She stumbled toward the edge, her fingers clawing at the bandages around her neck as if that could somehow release the agony pressing in on her chest. She was gasping now, her vision blurred, memories crashing down on her with every ragged breath.

“Hey—uh, maybe…maybe you shouldn’t touch that,” came a small voice.

Nyra looked up, startled. Standing nearby was the white-haired boy she’d seen once, at Benzo’s shop. His face was familiar, though his wide eyes and unsure smile looked younger than she remembered. His name is Ekko, she remembered. She tried to turn away, to hide her tears, but she couldn’t stop them.

The boy took a small step forward, watching her with cautious concern. “If…if you want, I can help you. You know…maybe help take your mind off things?”

Nyra stared at him, caught between gratitude and despair, and managed the smallest of nods.

He grinned, clearly pleased, and pointed down toward the windmill in the distance, the neon light casting an eerie glow. “I’m looking for a friend of mine. She kind of ran off.” He scratched his head, eyes darting back to Nyra. “She has blue hair and is about my age. I think she went…maybe to look for her parents?”

Nyra listened, clinging to his words like a lifeline, anything to ground her in the present. She noticed how young he looked, how small his hand seemed as he gestured. Despite her grief, her protective instincts flared to life. If he was here looking for a friend, she couldn’t just leave him alone.

She nodded again, wiping her eyes, and gestured for him to lead the way.

Ekko’s face brightened. “Thanks! I think, if we find her, maybe everything will be okay again.”

Nyra’s mouth lifted in the faintest hint of a smile, her heart heavy but softened by the boy's hope. And for the first time since the night on the bridge, she felt a flicker of purpose—a promise to help him, even if she couldn’t voice it. Together, they turned toward the path that led down to the dilapidated windmill, a fire of protectiveness burning in her body - if only to keep the cold of grief at bay.

Chapter Text

Nyra and Ekko walked side by side along the winding dirt path, the faint crunch of their steps muffled by the dense shadows around them. Ekko chattered away, bouncing with each step, his voice a quiet hum against the weight of the darkness.

“Everyone’s been looking for her, but I managed to follow her out here,” Ekko said proudly, glancing up at Nyra for a reaction. She nodded, letting him know she was listening, her gaze drifting uneasily to the darkened walls that lined their path. She clenched her fists, thoughts of her mother flickering through her mind like half-buried embers, but Ekko's rambling anchored her, bringing her back to the present.

They finally reached the bottom, but the dim light from above was swallowed by the pit's darkness. Nyra blinked, her eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden blackness. Ekko paused, then grinned, pulling out a small flashlight with a flourish. “I made this myself!” he announced, flicking it on with a burst of bright, white light.

Nyra’s eyes widened as the beam sliced through the shadows, revealing rows of makeshift shelters huddled together like clustered secrets. She froze, her gaze sweeping over the homeless camps—beds fashioned from rags, scattered belongings, and huddled figures shifting in the murk. These were families who’d lost everything during the battle at the bridge, uprooted and cast into the depths of the Undercity. Her heart quickened, a deep anger raging beneath her skin. "Topside—the cause of all our problems," she thought bitterly. Without thinking, she reached for Ekko’s hand and held it tight, guiding him swiftly toward the towering building marked by the flickering neon eye.

Ekko cast a quick glance back, then called out, “Blue!” His voice echoed up the metal beams, and Nyra raised an eyebrow.

“‘Blue’?” she mouthed, curiosity sparking through her worry. Ekko glanced at her sheepishly. “Oh, uh—her sister doesn’t like strangers knowing their real names. Their parents taught ‘em that.”

Nyra nodded, then they turned to enter the building. Ekko’s light scanned the walls and floor as they moved cautiously up the beams and scattered planks, their footsteps swallowed by the eerie stillness around them. On one of the upper levels, the flashlight beam finally caught a small figure curled up on the wooden planks, shoulders hunched and shaking.

Ekko approached first. “Hey, Blue! C’mon, it’s me.”

The girl sniffled, shrinking back, clutching her knees tightly. “I can’t go yet, Ekko..” she murmured, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I still have to find them… so Sissy won’t have to cry anymore.”

Nyra’s chest tightened at the quiet determination in the girl’s voice, a determination she knew well. She reached out a gentle hand, hoping to coax her down.

"Come on, Blue," Ekko said, nudging her gently. "Let’s head back to... uh..." He glanced at Nyra, catching himself. "Let’s go back to Pink. They... they aren't here anymore."

Blue’s shoulders tensed, and her tiny fists balled at her sides as she shook her head violently, pulling at her hair and pounding one fist against her temple. “They can’t be gone,” she murmured, the words falling from her lips in a desperate, fragile rhythm. “They can’t be gone.” Her voice cracked, breaking into a sob.

Without hesitating, Nyra scaled the planks to her side, gently taking Blue’s trembling hands in her own, pressing them close to her chest. She rubbed her thumbs over the girl’s small, cold palms, shaking her head in silent reassurance, and mouthed, It’s okay. The words, though soundless, seemed to calm Blue, if only a little.

Tears filled Blue’s eyes as she stammered, “Sissy keeps crying… she needs them back. I just… I thought if I found them, maybe she’d smile again.” Her voice was thin, pleading, laced with a helplessness Nyra knew too well. “The Wonder guy… he’s not our papa, and he can’t make her stop crying…”

Ekko sat beside her, resting his head on her shoulder. He squeezed his eyes shut, his voice barely a whisper. “I lost my pop too, Blue. But I’m here for ya—through thick or thin, like Benzo always says.” His words were as steady as he could manage, though a shadow of sadness crept over his face. Blue leaned into him, wiping her eyes with a shaky hand.

After a long pause, Blue looked up, her gaze searching Nyra’s face. Her voice was tiny, as if afraid to hear the truth out loud. “They’re never coming back, are they?”

Nyra swallowed hard, fighting the ache in her own chest as she gently shook her head. She reached out, brushing a strand of blue hair away from Blue’s tear-streaked face. The gesture felt like an echo of something her mother used to do for her, and suddenly, memories crashed down on her, brutal and vivid. Her mother’s face—warm, comforting, now gone—flooded her mind, and she stumbled, biting down on her tongue to hold herself together, hiding her pain from these children.

As she watched Ekko and Blue, so young—barely five years old and already carrying grief heavier than they should ever know—Nyra felt a hot rush of resentment rise within her. The topsiders, she thought bitterly, they’re the cause of all our suffering. The reason these kids have to grow up too fast, with wounds no child should bear. The thought fueled the anger brewing within her, a silent promise she made to herself at that moment to shield them however she could.

Pushing aside her own sorrow, she focused on the task at hand, looking to Blue and Ekko and gently motioning toward the exit. She raised her arms into a small triangle shape above her head, mimicking a roof to ask where they lived. Blue tilted her head, watching Nyra with a curious expression.

“You can’t speak?” she asked, her voice a little stronger now, though still cracking.

Nyra gave a timid nod, pointing to the bandages around her throat before mimicking a house again. Blue hesitated, but with a small, resigned nod, she allowed Ekko and Nyra to help her down, each of them holding one of her hands as they carefully made their way down the beams and planks, descending from the shadowed heights of the building.

As they reached the bottom, Ekko flicked on his flashlight, guiding them through the dim maze of shelters and tents until they emerged from the building with the neon eye. Blue cast a last, wistful glance back at the only home she’d known before turning and following them, her gaze steady as she left it behind forever.

Together, the three of them rushed through the winding homeless settlement, finally climbing the dirt path that led to the outer streets of the Lanes. They moved in silence, the undercity’s strange, muted glow casting shadows over their small procession. At last, Ekko led them toward the Last Drop, a faint warmth of familiarity settling over them as the crowded, lively pub came into view.

Nyra was about to go with them when her fingers instinctively went to her pocket. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized her locket—the one holding her father’s picture—was missing. A cold panic gripped her. Without a word, she pulled her hands from theirs and darted away, heart pounding as she retraced her steps, desperately trying to find her way back to the stranger's house, hoping that she would be able to find her only treasure there.

Ekko and Blue watched her go, standing in silence at the edge of the Last Drop’s welcoming glow. After a moment, Ekko scratched his head, looking back toward the path Nyra had taken.

“Never did get her name,” he murmured, a note of childish curiosity lacing his tiny voice. 

---
Nyra stumbled through the maze of winding alleys until exhaustion weighed down her steps. She slumped onto a nearby crate, her body sagging under the weight of the night's events, her emotions pressing at the edge of a full-blown panic. She couldn't for the life of her find her way back to that boulder of a man's house. She'd tried all the routes she could think of, but she always wound up lost and had to retrace her steps. Then she remembered—the stranger’s house sat close to the jagged walls of the Dredge. Her heart hammered as she steadied herself and retraced her way back, navigating through the shadows.

The house loomed before her, dark and silent. She slipped inside, her eyes adjusting to the dimness as she crept around, searching for her locket. But then she froze, hearing a low voice rumbling from the shadows near the bed.

“You come for this?” The stranger’s voice cut through the darkness as he held up the locket.

Nyra's instincts flared, her body coiling like a cornered animal. Without thinking, she launched herself at him, scrambling over the edge of the bed and baring her teeth as if ready to bite. He caught her mid-lunge, his massive hands gripping her under the arms, holding her at arm's length like she was a stray, thrashing kitten. He raised an eyebrow, more amused than alarmed.

“You done behaving like a mutated rat?” he asked with a scowl. When she finally stopped struggling, he set her gently on the ground, watching her with a wary look, as if an 8-year-old child could do serious harm to him.

“Thought you wouldn’t come back, little rat.” He extended the locket to her, his expression turning tired as he sat back on the bed, rubbing his neck. His voice turned colder, and his eyes drifted to the window, shadows pooling beneath them. “I don’t care about you or what you do. But, out of the goodness of my own heart, I’m offering you a once-in-a-lifetime chance to stay here. My late lady... well, she’d have had my head if I didn’t.”

His voice softened briefly at the mention, but his gaze hardened again as he looked at her.

“Don’t expect food or clothes from me. But you’ll have a roof over your head. It’s a bad world out there, and you’re not gonna last long on your own. So make up your mind."

Nyra’s eyes darted from the man to the shadowed streets outside, a chill creeping up her spine as she imagined the fates that awaited her beyond the thin protection of these walls. She shuddered, visions of the homeless camps and the ragged sump rats clawing for scraps down in the pit flashing in her mind. After a tense moment, she gave him a reluctant nod, her body coiled like a spring, ready to flee if he so much as twitched.

The man grunted in acknowledgment, dismissing her with a casual wave as he settled back down on the bed. She hesitated, then slipped into the small cot on the other side of the room, clutching her locket to her chest, feeling its cool, familiar weight against her skin. She curled up, listening to the quiet of the room, trying to convince herself she could actually close her eyes here.

As she began to drift into an uneasy sleep, his voice rumbled softly from across the room. “Starting tomorrow, I’ll teach you sign language.” He exhaled, his tone dropping to a rough murmur. “Now sleep, little rat.”

Nyra clung to the locket, her fingers brushing its worn edges, hoping that maybe tomorrow may hold the future her mother so desperately wished for her to have.

Chapter Text

The man called himself Grudge, and the name suited him far too well. He was a looming figure wrapped in a perpetual cloud of silence and a coat that seemed to have weathered as much of the undercity as its wearer. His face—sharp, pale, and shadowed by a lifetime of sleepless nights—gave away nothing but an air of quiet severity. His eyes were dark and heavy, like they carried the weight of stories he’d never tell.

He’d introduced himself simply and brusquely the next morning when she awoke in his makeshift home. No pleasantries, no explanations—just a clipped “Grudge. You’ll call me that.” He didn’t offer his real name, and Nyra wasn’t fool enough to ask. She’d already gathered that “cold and distant” wasn’t just an attitude for him; it was a lifestyle.

Nyra refused to pay close attention to her "temporary quarters" as she called Grudge's abode. However, on that morning she chose that enough is enough - her stubbornness had cost her many beatings from her mother when she was still alive. It wouldn't hurt to pay closer attention to her surroundings.

The house reflected its owner: functional but devoid of warmth. It was a cramped cube of bricks and rusting pipes nestled into the labyrinthine bowels of the undercity. There was no clutter except for what Nyra couldn’t identify—strange tools with edges dulled from use, scraps of paper with unintelligible scrawls, and, in the corner, a locked metal box.

Grudge never touched the box in her presence, and the single time she had approached it during one of his absences, something in her gut told her not to try the lock.

What little furniture the house had was sharp and industrial, except for the table, its surface scratched and worn from years of use. The table often bore the strangest evidence of his work: a rag crusted with dried blood, shards of glass, or metal instruments that looked more suited to a surgeon than anyone she cared to imagine. He never explained these things, and Nyra didn’t ask. She wasn’t foolish enough to invite one of his sharp warnings.

And it was here, beneath the constant groan of machinery and the flickering light of a sputtering lantern, that Grudge had begun his relentless lessons.

---

“Up.”

The first morning, Nyra barely had time to open her eyes before she felt a hand gripping her shoulder—firm and distant—and shaking her awake. Grudge loomed over her cot like a tower of impatience, his voice low and gravelly. “You sleep longer than the dead. Get up.”

Blinking, she opened her eyes to find him standing over her like a storm waiting to break. He was already dressed, his coat buttoned and his gloves pulled snug. The lantern on the table burned low, casting jagged shadows across his face.

Nyra sat up, scowling. Her joints ached from days of running, scavenging, and sleeping on the thin cot he’d provided. But before she could muster her usual rebellious glare, he turned on his heel and pulled a chair to the table with a screech that made her wince. “We start now,” he said. “Sign language. Every morning. You’ll need it.”

Nyra didn’t know why she would “need” it. She didn’t know much about this man at all, except that he had plucked her off the bridge when she wasn't awake to stop him. He hadn’t explained himself then, and he certainly wasn’t about to now.

The lessons began as drills, as brutal as they were baffling. Grudge didn’t allow hesitation or sloppiness, and when she faltered, his corrections were as sharp as a blade. “Wrong. Do it again.” His voice didn’t rise, but the weight of his words stung worse than a shouted reprimand. “You’re wasting time. Pay attention.”

Each movement he taught her was deliberate, precise, and demanding. The first few days left her hands cramped and her temper short, but Grudge offered no sympathy, only more instruction. And when the lessons ended, he’d vanish, leaving her alone with nothing but the quiet hum of the house.

---

Despite her frustration, Nyra couldn’t deny her curiosity. Every three days, Grudge disappeared for the entire day, returning late in the evening. Sometimes he carried new tools or maps folded under his arm, his coat smelling faintly of oil and sweat. Other times, he came back with blood speckled on his gloves or boots, his expression colder than usual.

He never acknowledged her observations, but the silence between them grew heavier with each disappearance.

---

After a few weeks of this routine, a notepad appeared on the table one morning. It was small, bound in scuffed leather, with a stubby pencil tucked into its spine.

Nyra stared at it, then at Grudge, her brow furrowed.

“For people who can’t understand your hands,” he said simply, shrugging into his coat. “Figure it out.”

He left without another word, leaving Nyra alone in the silence. She opened the notepad, running her fingers over its blank pages. It was an oddly thoughtful gesture, considering the man who’d given it to her. She hated that she felt a flicker of gratitude.

---

Nyra learned quickly that asking questions was an invitation for disaster.

Once, after a particularly grueling morning, she asked, “What kind of work do you even do?” Her handwriting had been shaky after a morning of using her hands non-stop.

Grudge didn’t look up from his task—a piece of cloth stained a deep rust color, his gloved hands meticulously scrubbing at it. For a moment, she thought he might not have noticed her message. But then his hand froze, the rag dripping water into the bowl beneath.

“Don’t ask about my work,” he said evenly. His voice was quiet, almost detached, but the steel in it was unmistakable. “If you want to keep staying here, don’t ask.”

The words struck harder than she expected, leaving her throat tight with resentment and fear. She didn’t ask again.

---

Nyra quickly decided she hated mornings.

She hated how the cold seeped into her bones before the sun had a chance to rise, how her joints ached when she tried to move, and most of all, how Grudge was always awake before her.

She’d tried, several times, to outmaneuver him.

The first time she tried to sneak out, she slipped from the cot before dawn, her steps light as whispers on the stone floor. She had almost made it to the door when his voice stopped her.

“Going somewhere?”

He didn’t even look up from the papers he was scribbling on.

Her second attempt was more careful. She woke even earlier, before the lantern had been lit. She crept to the door in complete silence, but when she opened it, she was met with the unmistakable glow of his cigarette. Grudge sat on the stoop, his coat pulled tight around him as he exhaled a thin plume of smoke.

“Predictable,” he said without turning. “And slow. Try again tomorrow.”

No matter how early she woke, no matter how quiet her steps, he was always one step ahead. It infuriated her to no end, but she never gave up trying. If nothing else, the attempts gave her a fleeting sense of control in a world that seemed to relish taking it away.

---

It was a day like every other - a few grueling hours of learning sign language, followed by Grudge's quick escape from the house as if staying in there for longer than he had to would mortally wound him. Nyra had gotten used to his routine of leaving after their lessons - she looked forward to it, as a matter of fact. She slipped on her old shoes, a little too tight for her growing body. She slipped out through the front door, rushing silently towards the center of the undercity, hoping that she'd find treasures during her scavenging trip. 

Walking down a big street with bustling booths, manned by colorful vendors, Nyra felt a pair of feet, two pairs to be exact, following her insistently - she could feel their pitter-patter for the past one hour. 

Nyra had learned to trust the twitch in her gut, that instinctive pull that warned her she was being watched. The lanes of the undercity were bustling, but the feeling persisted—a prickling at the back of her neck, a whisper of footsteps just out of sync with the noise around her.

She didn’t stop walking, keeping her movements steady as she scanned the alleys with practiced ease. The shadows were dense today, the sky above barely visible through the tangle of pipes and wires. With a flick of her wrist, she slipped into a narrow side street, her heart steady but her senses on high alert.

---

She waited, her back pressed against the damp stone wall, until the footsteps grew close enough to echo faintly in the tight alley. Then, in a single, fluid motion, she swung out of her hiding spot. Her hand shot out, gripping the collar of her would-be stalker.

Her readied attack died the moment two wide-eyed faces stared back at her.

“Blue?” she mouthed, her scarred throat tightening as she worked the name silently.

The girl in her grasp squirmed, her blue hair disheveled and her lip trembling. Behind her, Ekko froze, clutching a rusted pipe as if it might save him from the wrath of the older girl.

“Let me go!” Blue squeaked, tears welling in her big, round eyes. Her tiny fists pounded against Nyra’s arm, though they barely made an impact.

Nyra sighed through her nose and released the girl. She watched as Blue stumbled back into Ekko, who immediately stepped forward, his chin lifted in a brave but foolhardy gesture.

“Don’t hurt her!” he declared, his voice cracking slightly. “We didn’t mean anything bad!”

Nyra crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow, her posture screaming skepticism. Without a word, she pulled out the battered notepad from her coat pocket and scrawled:

"Why are you following me?"

Blue sniffled, wiping at her eyes before peeking at the note. “We just... we just wanted to see you again,” she mumbled, her voice trembling. “You ran off last time and... and you’re cool, okay?”

“Yeah,” Ekko added quickly, his hands flailing for emphasis. “Cool! Like... uh, a secret spy or something! And we never even got your name and you already know ours- well.. to an extent!”

Nyra fought the urge to roll her eyes, though a small smirk tugged at her lips. She shoved the notepad under their noses again, this time scribbling:

"Name's Nyra. Shouldn’t you be with your guardians?"

Ekko and Blue exchanged glances, their guilt as obvious as a gas lamp in the dark.

“They know,” Blue said, her voice a bit too high-pitched. “Totally. We asked and everything!”

Nyra’s eyes narrowed, and she tapped the pen against the notepad.

“We’re telling the truth!” Ekko insisted, but the way his gaze darted to the side betrayed him.

---

Eventually, Nyra gave in. It wasn’t as though she had anything better to do, and the idea of spending the day with these two troublemakers didn’t seem so terrible.

She led them through winding streets and up a series of precarious beams until they reached her secret spot: a forgotten rooftop garden, tucked behind a curtain of rusted metal and broken beams.

Once, it might have been a project of pride for some undercity dreamer—rows of moss-covered pots and ivy creeping along crumbling brick. Now, it was overgrown and wild, a hidden oasis above the grime and chaos below.

“This is amazing!” Blue gasped, spinning in circles as she took it all in.

Ekko let out a low whistle, his wide grin lighting up his face. “How’d you even find this place?”

Nyra shrugged, gesturing vaguely toward the city beyond. She didn’t bother explaining—it was better to let them imagine. It would do those kids well to let their imaginations run wild. And what a sad thought that was - the thought that Nyra no longer thought of herself as a child.

---

The three of them spent hours playing make-believe, transforming themselves into pompous Piltover aristocrats. Blue tucked a tuft of moss under her nose, adopting the role of a mustachioed tycoon. Ekko mimed holding a teacup, his pinky extended dramatically.

“Ah, yes, quite right, old sport,” he said in an exaggerated Piltover accent, his nose in the air. “The proletariat simply don’t appreciate the finer things in life!”

Blue burst into laughter, falling onto her back among the wildflowers. Even Nyra, who usually kept her emotions close to her chest, found herself smiling. It was a rare kind of warmth, one that softened the ache in her chest—like a salve on a wound that had never quite healed.

Nyra quickly whipped out her notebook, jotting down the words:
"Now where did a child as young as you learn such words?"

Ekko smiled sheepishly, responding with a soft "Vander." Blue giggled at the mention of that name, patting the makeshift mustache on her lower lip with newfound reverence. It made Nyra happy to see the kids so at ease with her. 

For a while, it was easy to forget.

---

But then it happened.

Blue reached for a flower, only to knock over one of the pots. The shattering sound was loud, almost jarring after their laughter.

“Oh no, oh no,” Blue muttered, her hands trembling as she looked at the mess. Before anyone could say a word, she began to hit herself on the head, her little fists striking her temple over and over.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

The air shifted, the laughter vanishing in an instant. Nyra was beside her in a heartbeat, grabbing Blue’s hands and pulling them away.

“Stop,” she mouthed, her expression firm but gentle.

Blue’s eyes filled with tears, her lips trembling as she tried to pull her hands free.

Nyra didn’t let go. Instead, she lifted one hand and tapped her own scarred throat, her fingers tracing the mark. Her eyes softened, and she tilted her head as if to say, I know how it feels. You’re not alone.

Blue froze, her breathing ragged. Slowly, the tension drained from her small frame.

Ekko hovered nearby, unsure of what to do. “Blue...” he whispered.

“It’s okay,” Nyra mouthed to him, then gave Blue’s hands a gentle squeeze before letting go.

Blue sniffled but didn’t hit herself again. Instead, she curled into Nyra’s side, her tiny frame trembling.

For the rest of the day, Nyra stayed close to her, keeping a watchful eye as they laughed and played. The ache in her chest was still there, but it felt smaller now, like it wasn’t quite so heavy when she wasn’t carrying it alone.

---

The lessons had become a rhythm, a steady beat in Nyra’s otherwise unsteady days. Grudge’s hands moved with precision, the sharp, deliberate signs snapping through the air like commands.

“Again,” he signed, his dark eyes fixed on her.

Nyra’s fingers hesitated, then stumbled through the motions, signing, I need water.

Grudge shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Sloppy,” he muttered aloud. “Do it again.”

The room was dim, lit only by the weak, flickering light of a lantern on the table. Grudge’s expression was as unreadable as ever, his stern demeanor casting long shadows over their lessons.

Nyra’s frustration simmered beneath the surface, but she gritted her teeth and tried again. Her movements were careful, deliberate this time. When she finished, she glanced up, waiting for his nod of approval.

It didn’t come.

Instead, Grudge’s gaze softened—just for a heartbeat, just long enough for him to murmur, “Good, Melodie.”

The name hit her like a sudden gust of wind, leaving her stunned. For a moment, she thought she’d misheard. But no—the word hung in the air between them, heavy and unmistakable.

Her hands stilled mid-sign.

“Who’s Melodie?” she signed, her brows furrowing.

Grudge froze. His hands hovered in the space between them, his stoic mask slipping just enough for her to see the flicker of something raw in his eyes.

“It’s none of your concern,” he said sharply, his voice cutting through the stillness.

Nyra didn’t back down. She leaned forward, her movements deliberate as she signed, “Was she someone you lost?”

Grudge’s hands dropped to his sides. He turned away from her, his shoulders stiff and unyielding. “Stop asking,” he said, his tone low but charged with tension.

Nyra rose to her feet, moving to stand in front of him, the notepad forgotten on the table. “You called me her name. Why?” she signed, her gestures sharper now, her own frustration bubbling to the surface.

“Enough!” Grudge barked, rage simmering in his eyes. For the first time, his cold facade cracked wide open, revealing a fury that burned hotter than she’d thought possible. “I said it’s none of your business!”

Nyra flinched but didn’t retreat. Her hands trembled as she signed again, slower this time, as if each motion could pry the truth from him. “Was she mute too?”

That question landed like a blow. Grudge’s face hardened, his jaw tightening as he pointed a finger at her. “Lessons are over,” he snapped.

Nyra opened her mouth to protest, but he was already moving, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair. He didn’t slam the door as he left—he didn’t need to. The sharp, deliberate click of the latch felt final enough.

---

For the next few days, the house was quieter than it had ever been.

Grudge was gone most of the time, returning only at odd hours to drop off supplies or retreat to his room. He barely looked at Nyra, let alone spoke to her, and the silence between them grew heavy, almost suffocating.

Nyra tried not to dwell on it, telling herself she shouldn’t care. After all, he’d been nothing but cold to her—aloof, distant, treating her more like a responsibility than a person.

And yet, she couldn’t shake the gnawing guilt. She replayed their argument in her mind, over and over, getting herself worked up "unnecessarily", as she liked to say to herself in her head.

---

The week rolled by in an unremarkable rhythm. Days bled together like watercolors on damp paper: mornings of gruff greetings and goodbyes with Grudge, afternoons spent alone in the quiet house, and stolen evenings teaching Blue and Ekko clumsy gestures under flickering lamplight.

Grudge remained distant, his sharp and brisque sentences as much a fixture as the hum of the city beyond the walls. Nyra matched his coldness with her own, neither thawing nor challenging his icy demeanor. Still, the weight of his accidental "Melodie" hung between them, unspoken but present, like a thorn embedded too deep to remove.

And so, when Grudge left early that morning, muttering something vague about "business," Nyra felt the pull of the outside world, an itch she couldn't ignore. The kids weren't around to pull her into one of their chaotic games, and the silent walls of the house were closing in. She made her decision quickly, slipping out of the door with the faintest click and stepping into the Undercity's embrace.

The air was damp and thick with the acrid tang of machinery and the faint, sour undertone of garbage. It wasn’t inviting, but it was alive, and that was all Nyra needed. She hadn’t planned much—adventure didn’t need plans. All she knew was that her shoes pinched her feet, and something new, something better, was long overdue.

Her path took her upward, toward the promenade level where the shops and markets bustled with frantic energy. This was the heart of the Undercity’s commerce, where trades were bartered, stolen goods exchanged, and desperate deals whispered in shadowed corners. The promenade pulsed with life, and though it wasn’t her first time there, Nyra still felt a twinge of awe.

Stalls stretched as far as she could see, a chaotic tapestry of mismatched colors, rusted metal, and fraying cloth. Voices clamored for attention: merchants shouting their wares, children laughing as they darted between legs, the occasional shout of an angry customer. Above it all hung a web of cables and makeshift bridges, the architecture of survival. The grey, a thick smog that separated luxury from poverty, blanketed the undercity's sky, hiding them from the eyes of the wealthy, if only to keep them safe from the greed of those who own more than they can see.

Nyra moved with purpose, slipping through the crowd like a whisper. She kept her eyes on her goal—a vendor she had scoped out during her last outing. His stall was small and unimpressive, but the gems he sold glittered like shards of stolen sky.

She didn’t need much. Just enough to trade for new shoes, maybe even a decent meal.

The vendor was occupied, arguing with another customer over the quality of his wares. Nyra saw her opening and acted without hesitation. Her hand darted out, quick and practiced, and she felt the reassuring weight of a pouch fall into her palm. She was gone before the vendor could turn his head, slipping back into the crowd like smoke.

Her heart pounded, but her face remained calm, her steps deliberate. Don’t look back. Don’t act suspicious. Just keep moving.

It wasn’t until she reached the quieter alleys branching off the promenade that she allowed herself a moment to breathe. She ducked into the shadows, leaning against a grimy wall, and loosened her grip on the pouch to peek inside.

A small smile tugged at her lips. The gems weren’t perfect—most were chipped or dulled—but they would do.

Her moment of triumph was short-lived.

“Nice haul,” a voice drawled from the mouth of the alley.

Nyra’s head snapped up. Three figures stepped into the dim light, their postures relaxed but their eyes sharp.

“Been watching you,” the tallest one said, a lanky boy with a crooked grin. “Thought we’d let you do the hard part. Now it’s time to share.”

Nyra tightened her grip on the pouch, her stomach sinking. “Not a chance,” she signed, the gesture sharp and defiant.

The boy laughed. “Don’t need to understand you to get the message. Too bad.”

They moved as one, circling her like wolves. Nyra darted toward the alley’s exit, but a girl with braided hair blocked her path, shoving her back toward the group.

She lashed out, her fist connecting with someone’s ribs, but it wasn’t enough. Hands grabbed her, pulling her down, and she felt the hard impact of fists and feet. The pouch was yanked from her grasp, but they didn’t stop.

The world blurred into pain and fear, and Nyra curled into herself, waiting for it to end.

The chaos broke apart with a shout—a feral, defiant yell that cut through the air like a whip.

Nyra looked up through blurred vision to see a pink-haired girl charging into the fray. She moved like a force of nature, fists swinging in sharp arcs that sent one of the attackers sprawling.

“Really?” the pink-haired girl barked as she grabbed another by the collar and slammed him against the wall. “A whole group of you against one kid? Pathetic.”

The wiry boy tried to fight back, but she ducked under his swing, driving her elbow into his gut with a sickening thud. Still, the others pressed in, landing a few blows on her, and for a moment, Nyra thought the girl might go down too.

But she didn’t.

She fought like she had something to prove, her movements relentless even as she took hit after hit. When the last of the street kids finally staggered away, defeated and cursing under their breath, she turned to Nyra, panting and bruised but victorious.

“You’re welcome, cutie” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Nyra blinked at her, still crouched on the ground, clutching the pouch of gems.

The pink-haired girl raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? Not even a ‘thanks’? You’re just gonna sit there like a scared little mouse?”

Nyra scowled, her pride stinging worse than her bruises. She stood up slowly, wincing, and glared at the girl.

“I see how it is,” the girl said, crossing her arms. “I stick my neck out for you, and you can’t even say—oh, wait.” Her gaze lingered on Nyra’s throat, where the scar was still visible. “Huh. That explains it.”

Nyra’s hands clenched into fists. She didn’t need this stranger’s pity.

“Whatever,” the girl said, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re welcome anyway. Next time, maybe try not to act so helpless.”

Nyra’s glare deepened, and she turned on her heel, limping away without so much as a glance back.

“Ungrateful street mouse,” the girl muttered. Then, louder, “Would it kill you to say something nice?”

Nyra’s pace quickened, her cheeks burning with humiliation. She’d almost made it out of earshot when she heard two voices calling out.

“Slow down, damn it!”

The pink-haired girl turned, grinning at the sight of two boys scrambling down from a rooftop.

“You could’ve waited for us,” the taller one panted, his round face red from exertion.

“Yeah,” the wiry boy added, pushing spiky hair out of his eyes. “We can’t all be insane, you know.”

The girl shrugged. “You snooze, you lose. Anyway, I just saved someone’s sorry butt. You’re welcome.", she shouted over her shoulder, her quip directed at Nyra.

Nyra glanced back, just once, as the trio disappeared into the crowd, their banter fading into the noise of the Undercity.

She didn’t stop limping until she was safely out of sight.

---

Nyra stumbled through the dimly lit streets, her body aching with every step. The adrenaline that had carried her this far was long gone, leaving only the sharp, biting pain of her bruises and cuts. Her limbs felt leaden, and she clutched her ribs as though the act alone could hold her together. Soundlessly, she whimpered, the sound caught in her throat like a wounded animal's cry.

By the time she reached the door of the house, she was half-dragging herself, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. With trembling hands, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. The familiar scent of the stale interior greeted her—wood and metal tinged with the faintest trace of alcohol.

She didn’t even bother to light a lamp. The dark seemed kinder, offering a cloak to hide her battered pride. Nyra slumped onto her cot, pulling the thin blanket over herself with an almost mechanical motion. Each movement sent sharp jolts of pain through her body, but she bit her lip, forcing the tears to stay hidden.

Sleep wouldn’t come, but still, she closed her eyes and willed herself to disappear into the fabric of her bed.

The door creaked open later that evening, Grudge’s heavy boots marking his return. His entrance was the same as always—brusque, indifferent. “Evening,” he muttered, his voice carrying no expectation of a response. He set his satchel on the rickety table with a thud, the sound breaking the quiet like a stone dropped into still water.

When he turned and saw Nyra lying motionless, he hesitated. The usual defiance in her posture was gone, replaced by the labored rise and fall of her breath.

Something flickered across his face—an emotion too brief to name. With a sigh, he moved closer, his footsteps thunderous as they always were. Pulling the blanket back just enough, he frowned at the sight of her bruised body.

“Stupid little rat,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand over his face. He pulled out a chair and sat beside her, the legs scraping the floor. “Sit up,” he said, his tone low but firm.

Nyra didn’t move. She kept her eyes closed, her body rigid with silent refusal.

“Sit up,” he repeated, sharper this time.

When she still didn’t comply, he stood and placed a bottle of clear, sharp-smelling alcohol on the floor next to his feet. His hands moved methodically, gathering bandages and a clean cloth.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he said, his voice laced with warning.

Reluctantly, Nyra shifted, biting back a hiss as she propped herself up on trembling arms. She glared at him, her dark eyes sharp even in her weakened state.

Grudge said nothing at first. He situated himself on the chair and uncorked the bottle, the pungent smell filling the room, and soaked the cloth. Without ceremony, he pressed it against one of her cuts, the sting sharp enough to make her flinch.

“What happened?” he asked, his tone as neutral as his expression.

Nyra turned her head away, refusing to meet his gaze.

“I don’t care what happens to you,” he continued after a moment, his voice quieter but no less blunt. “But I am curious.”

Her jaw tightened. She picked up her notepad from the table, her movements slow and deliberate. Her hand trembled as she scrawled a reply:

You wouldn’t tell me why you called me Melodie, so I won’t talk to you about this.

She slid the notepad toward him, then braced herself, expecting another outburst like the one before.

But Grudge didn’t yell. He didn’t even scowl. Instead, he let out the most bone-weary sigh she had ever heard, a sound that carried the weight of years. He didn’t speak for a long time, the silence stretching thin and taut.

Finally, he said, so quietly she almost didn’t catch it, “She was my daughter. A mute, just like you.”

The confession landed heavily between them, like a stone sinking into murky water.

When Grudge said the words, "She was my daughter. A mute, just like you," Nyra froze.

The revelation settled into the air, heavy and unshakable, as her eyes instinctively darted to the small cot she slept on each night.

Her cot.

The thought stung with a peculiar kind of weight, one she hadn’t noticed before. When she’d first stumbled into this house—bruised, bleeding, and barely alive—the cot had seemed like just another part of this sparse, joyless home. A place to sleep. Nothing more.

But now, in the dim, flickering light, she saw it differently. The edges of the cot were scuffed, the legs slightly wobbly, and the mattress was soft in the way only years of use could make it. It wasn’t new, and it certainly wasn’t chosen for her. It had been there, waiting.

It had belonged to her.

Nyra’s mind spun, piecing it together—the deliberate neatness of the cot when she’d arrived, the faded quilt that looked far too worn to have been bought for a stray. She remembered wondering, once or twice, why Grudge even had it in a house where he lived alone. But she hadn’t dared ask, chalking it up to the clutter of someone who didn’t care about appearances.

Now she knew better.

Her fingers dug into the notepad in her lap, gripping it tightly as she searched his face. Grudge wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was bent over the chair, scrubbing his hands clean with a rag, his movements slow, deliberate, and detached.

"You wonder too much," he muttered, his voice gruff but quieter than usual.

She glanced at him, searching for more, but his face was unreadable. After a moment, she nodded, acknowledging the weight of his words but not pressing further.

When he finished cleaning and bandaging her wounds, he set the cloth aside and leaned back in his chair. “Information for information,” he said, his tone shifting back to its usual gruffness. “That’s the way of the lanes.”

Nyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she picked up the notepad again. With a sigh of her own, she scribbled:

I needed new shoes. Stole. Got beaten up over the spoils.

Grudge read it and grunted. “At least you didn’t need stitches.”

He stood and stretched, his movements slow and deliberate, as if the exchange had taken more out of him than he cared to admit. Without another word, he turned and left the room.

---

Nyra lay back down, the ache in her body matched only by the strange warmth in her chest. It wasn’t kindness exactly, but it was… something. An understanding, fragile but present.

The next morning, sunlight filtered weakly through the grimy windows, and Nyra stirred from her restless sleep. When she sat up, her eyes fell on something by her bed.

A pair of brand-new shoes, sturdy and well-fitted, waited for her. There was no note, no acknowledgment, just the quiet gesture.

Nyra smiled to herself, a rare and genuine smile, before slipping them on.

Chapter Text

The pond was a smudge of beauty in an otherwise gray world, its surface flecked with shimmering ripples and the occasional bobbing toy abandoned by Piltover’s braver—or perhaps more reckless—children. Nyra crouched at its edge, one hand brushing the cool, damp grass as she signed deliberately slow for Blue and Ekko, her makeshift students. They had been doing this song and dance for almost twelve months. It took a while to get used to their shenanigans.

“Again,” she signed, her fingers moving slowly and methodically, her face an exaggerated picture of mock sternness.

Ekko, always eager to impress, furrowed his brow and mimicked her movements, his fingers moving through the air with the kind of precision he usually reserved for tinkering with Benzo's wares. “Fish,” he signed, his expression one of intense concentration as if the fate of the world depended on him getting it just right.

Blue squinted at him and then shot Nyra a glance. “That’s fish?” she asked, clearly trying to hold back a giggle.

Nyra nodded, serious as ever. “Fish.”

Blue scratched her head and signed back, her movements shaky. “Pond fish!” she declared, though her sign for “pond” looked more like the sign for potato instead.

She immediately doubled over, her giggles spilling out uncontrollably, her sides shaking as she laughed at herself.

Nyra couldn’t help it—she let out a little soundless laugh too, but only because Blue was so ridiculously earnest in her mistakes. She rolled her eyes and gave a long-suffering sigh, her hands correcting the mix-up with exaggerated slowness, the same way a teacher would for a misbehaving student.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Blue gasped between fits of laughter. “I just—potato? Really?”

Nyra shot her a look that could’ve been stern, but it was hard to keep it up with Blue’s antics. “Pond,” she signed again, slowly this time, making sure it was crystal clear.

Ekko, always the troublemaker, saw his opening. He grinned wickedly, leaning toward Blue. “Blue smells like pond fish,” he signed with a perfect flourish, his hands moving with the same exaggerated grace he used when trying to impress anyone.

Blue gasped in mock betrayal, clutching her chest as if she'd been struck with a knife. “I do not!” she shouted, though her grin made it clear she didn’t mind. Before Ekko could laugh too much, Blue lunged at him, sending a splash of water into the air. The two of them rolled into the pond with an unceremonious plop.

Ekko yelped as the cold water hit him, flailing to stay afloat. “Hey! What the heck, Blue? I was just—”

Blue was already swimming away, laughing so hard she could barely stay above water. “Serves you right for making me smell like fish!” she shouted, though it was clear she didn’t really mean it.

Nyra leaned back on her hands, watching the chaos unfold. She shook with silent laughter, the sight of Ekko sputtering and wiping water out of his eyes too much to resist. There was something so absurd about seeing Ekko now flailing like a fish out of water.

Finally, she calmed herself enough to sign with a teasing grin, “You guys are trouble.”

Ekko, still half-drenched, wiped his face and shook his head. “I swear, she’s like a walking water balloon.” He glanced at Blue, who was now attempting to float on her back in the middle of the pond, only to sink a little too much and laugh hysterically.

“Bet you can’t swim like a fish,” Ekko challenged, grinning.

Blue paused, floating for a moment, then dramatically flopped onto her stomach with a triumphant grin. “Challenge accepted,” she said in between laughs, kicking water back toward Ekko in an epic splash.

Nyra, still crouched on the shore, found herself laughing too—a real laugh, albeit soundless, not the usual dry release of air she reserved for strangers. Watching them—it was easy to forget the harshness of everything just beyond this pond. 

“You’re both going to drown yourselves,” Nyra signed, her face pulled into a playful smirk as she watched them splash each other.

“We’re fine!” Ekko said, wading in the water and grinning like a maniac. “We’re practically experts at this!”

Blue, still floating on her back, nodded seriously. “Yeah, this is how all the best people swim. Like fish.” She kicked her feet and splashed water over her head, sending it raining down on Ekko, who let out a dramatic groan.

“Well, when you’re both done getting yourselves soaked,” Nyra signed with a grin, “maybe we can actually learn something today?”

Ekko shot her a look, pretending to consider it. “Hmm, I think we’ve mastered swimming and fish-talk for the day,” he said, dripping water all over the grass as he climbed out of the pond.

Blue sat up, wringing out her hair and nodding enthusiastically. “Yeah, we can be professional swimmers tomorrow. But today—today we’re learning the art of fish signs.”

“Pond.” Nyra corrected with a raised brow, the smile on her face betraying her amusement.

Ekko grinned. “Potato,” he signed with a cheeky wink, clearly having fun with the joke.

Blue gasped. “No! Not again!” But she was laughing, and Nyra found herself laughing with her.

---

They sprawled in the grass afterward, the game forgotten for now, as the sound of water lapping at the shore filled the quiet. The patch of sunlight they’d claimed felt like a safe bubble, untouchable by the shadows looming just beyond.

“I’m gonna build something incredible one day,” Ekko said, staring at the pipes crisscrossing above them. His voice carried an unshakable confidence that made it impossible not to believe him. “A machine that’ll clean this whole pond. The whole world, even. Then everyone can swim in it without worrying about…you know.”

Blue wrinkled her nose. “About getting sick?”

“Exactly.” Ekko made an exaggerated face of disgust. “I mean, it’s fun here, but imagine if it didn’t smell like…whatever that is.”

Blue sat up on her elbows, brushing blades of grass from her clothes. “When it’s clean, I’m gonna paint it. Big glowing fish, like they’re swimming in the stars.” She waved her hands through the air, as if painting her vision already.

Nyra watched them from where she sat, her legs crossed, her hands resting loosely in her lap. “What would you paint first?” she signed, her movements slow and deliberate.

Blue tapped her chin, considering. “The sky,” she said finally. “Or…what I think it looks like up there. Clouds, maybe. I’ve never seen them up close for real.”

Nyra nodded slowly, her throat tightening at the sheer hope in the girl’s voice. She glanced down at her hands and signed, “Dream. Hope.”

Ekko sat up, grinning mischievously. “Hope looks like Blue trying to catch a frog,” he said, winking.

“Hey!” Blue shouted, snatching up a handful of grass and chucking it at him. Her aim was bad, but her laugh was infectious, and even Nyra found herself smiling at their antics.

The laughter softened into a comfortable silence, the kind that felt like warmth against the skin. Ekko rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “What about you, Echo?” he asked, using the nickname they’d given her a few months prior. “What’s your dream?”

Nyra stilled, her fingers curling slightly against her knees. She hadn’t expected the question, and the weight of it felt sudden and heavy.

“I don’t—” she started signing, then stopped. Her hands hovered in midair as her gaze flicked to the pond, its surface rippling gently in the breeze.

Blue tilted her head, waiting patiently. Ekko leaned closer, his eyes alight with curiosity.

Nyra hesitated, her jaw tightening as memories tugged at the edges of her thoughts—her mother’s voice, soft and clear as it sang her lullabies, the way she’d hum melodies while cooking, how the sound had filled their small home with warmth.

Slowly, she signed again, her movements tentative. “I wish… to sing.” Her hands paused, trembling slightly. Then she completed the thought: “For the whole world.”

The words hung in the air between them, weighty and fragile. Ekko’s brow furrowed, and Blue’s eyes widened with surprise.

“You can sing?” Blue asked softly.

Nyra’s hands fell to her lap, and she looked down, her face shadowed. “Not anymore,” she signed, her movements smaller now.

Ekko nudged Blue lightly, as if reminding her to tread carefully. “That’s… a really cool dream,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “I bet the world would love to hear you.”

Nyra’s lips curved in the faintest of smiles, though it didn’t reach her eyes. The truth she didn’t sign lingered like a secret too fragile to say aloud: And maybe, just maybe, if my mom hears me sing again, she’ll find her way back to me from the dead.

She swallowed hard, pushing the thought down before it could linger too long. The kids didn’t need to see the cracks in her armor.

Blue crawled closer, resting her chin in her hands as she looked up at Nyra. “Maybe you can teach us how to sign ‘sing’ properly next,” she said with a small smile, her voice gentle. While the children had been able to understand her signing thus far, it was hard for them to follow through with their own signs.

Nyra nodded once, her hands rising again to show them the sign. Blue and Ekko mimicked her, their movements clumsy but earnest, and Nyra felt a strange, quiet warmth blooming in her chest.

For a moment, the harshness of their world faded away, replaced by the soft ripples of the pond and the steady rhythm of their hands learning to speak.
---

The sun had started its lazy descent, casting the pond in a warm, golden glow. Ekko and Blue lounged in the grass, their laughter bouncing off the water like skipping stones. Nyra sat nearby, her usual cross-legged perch, a picture of tranquility as she watched them.

The topic of conversation had drifted, as it often did, to “Pink.”

“Nyra, you have to meet her,” Blue insisted, her voice buzzing with energy. She was on her back, gesturing dramatically at the sky. “She’s the best. Stronger than anyone, and she’s so cool. Once, she fought three guys with just a broomstick.”

Ekko nodded solemnly, backing her up with the enthusiasm of someone who had heard the story at least ten times and still thought it deserved an encore. “Three guys,” he repeated, holding up three fingers for emphasis. “And they didn’t stand a chance. They were, like, crying by the end.”

Nyra quirked an eyebrow, her fingers moving slowly as she signed, “She sounds like she has enough fans already.” Her expression was deliberately flat, though there was the faintest twitch of a smirk at the corner of her mouth.

Blue sat up, narrowing her eyes at Nyra in mock offense. “That’s not the point, Echo!” She poked Nyra’s arm, her grin widening when Nyra sighed dramatically, clearly pretending to be annoyed. “You’d like her! You’re both... y’know. Tough. And awesome. And you don’t like smiling much.”

Ekko burst out laughing. “Yeah, Pink’s basically you, but louder.”

Nyra signed, “And now I definitely don’t want to meet her.”

“C’mon!” Blue groaned, flopping onto her back again and throwing an arm over her face like she’d been mortally wounded. “You’re impossible.”

Ekko wasn’t giving up so easily. He leaned forward, grinning slyly. “You’re, like, the coolest people we know. You have to meet. You’d be unstoppable together. Like, the Undercity Protectors or something.”

Nyra tilted her head, unimpressed. “I’m not good at making friends.”

Blue wasn’t having it. She shot up again, poking Nyra in the ribs this time. “You’re our friend!” Her tone was triumphant, as if she’d just unraveled the world’s biggest mystery. “So that excuse doesn’t work anymore.”

Nyra gave her a long, dry look, but the faintest twitch of a smile gave her away. She signed, “That’s different.”

Blue grinned, undeterred. “You’re just scared she’s gonna beat you in a fight.”

Ekko gasped, playing along. “Ooh, she would, wouldn’t she? I mean, if she can fight off three guys with a broomstick...”

Nyra rolled her eyes so hard it looked like they might stick that way. She gestured sharply at Ekko, her signs quick and playful. “You’ve been talking about this broomstick thing for weeks. You act like it’s magic.”

“It kinda was,” Blue chimed in, her tone dreamy, like she was reliving the moment. “She didn’t even break the broomstick. It’s still at the Last Drop, like a trophy.”

Nyra sighed, letting herself flop onto her back. “Fine,” she signed lazily, her hands barely lifting from the grass. “I’ll meet her. But only so I can prove she’s not as amazing as you think she is.”

Blue gasped, leaning over Nyra like a tiny menace. “I’m telling her you said that.”

Nyra smirked, unbothered. “Go ahead. It’s not like she’ll care what I think.”

“She will care,” Ekko said, grinning like a kid with a secret. “Especially when she realizes you’re secretly the nicest person alive.”

Nyra glared at him, and Blue burst out laughing, grabbing a fistful of grass and tossing it at him. Ekko yelped and scrambled out of range, cackling. Nyra sat up, watching them with a mix of exasperation and affection.

“Okay, it’s settled!” Blue declared, planting her hands on her hips. “Tomorrow, we’re all going scavenging. And you’re meeting Pink. No more excuses.”

Nyra huffed, but there was no real fight in her. The kids always won eventually.

Ekko grinned, bouncing on his heels. “Oh, this is gonna be great. I can’t wait to see her reaction when she meets you.”

Nyra’s smirk widened. “She’s not going to like me.”

Blue just grinned back, her confidence unshakable. “We’ll see.”
___

The mechanical dummy lurched forward with a hiss and a clank, its glove-clad arms swinging fast as Pink ducked under a swipe. Her knuckles connected with its side padding, a dull thud echoing through the hideout. She spun, dodging another swing, and drove her elbow into the dummy’s chest.

From their perch on a nearby crate, Mylo and Claggor watched the display, eating snacks that Blue had sneakily pilfered from the kitchen.

“You know, you’re gonna knock that thing into next week, Vi,” Mylo said around a mouthful of bread. “Not that it can fight back or anything.”

Claggor sighed, picking a crumb off his shirt. “She’s working through some stuff, Mylo. Maybe don’t poke the bear.”

Vi grunted, her fists slamming into the dummy in a punishing one-two combo. “I’m not working through anything,” she snapped, though the dent forming in the dummy’s chest padding suggested otherwise.

“Oh, yeah? Then why’re you muttering about ‘Echo’ under your breath like some creepy stalker?” Mylo teased, ducking instinctively when Vi shot him a glare. “What, are you mad she hasn’t written you a love letter yet?”

Claggor snorted, trying to stifle a laugh, but the look on Vi’s face sobered him up quickly. “He doesn’t mean that,” he said diplomatically. “But seriously, what’s got you so wound up about this girl?”

Vi slammed her fist into the dummy’s side, hard enough to send it wobbling on its base. “Because it’s been a year, Claggor. A year, and she hasn’t even bothered to meet me. Powder and Ekko won’t shut up about how great she is, but she’s too good to introduce herself? What’s that about?”

Mylo shrugged. “Maybe she’s shy. Or allergic to pink hair.”

“Shy?” Vi barked out a humorless laugh, stepping back to dodge another swing from the dummy. “She’s been hanging out with Powder and Ekko for a year. You think she’s too shy to say hi to Powder's sister?”

“Well,” Claggor began, rubbing the back of his neck, “what if it’s not about you? Maybe she’s got her own thing going on. You know, like Vander always says—people in the Lanes don’t just hand out trust like candy.”

Vi rounded on him, her eyes narrowing. “You think I’m the untrustworthy one?”

Claggor held up his hands. “Whoa, whoa. Didn’t say that. Just saying maybe she’s being careful.”

“Careful,” Vi muttered, slamming her elbow into the dummy’s head plate. It spun violently on its axis before clunking back into place. “Or hiding something.”

“She doesn’t even talk,” Mylo pointed out, tossing a piece of bread crust into the air and catching it in his mouth. “That’s what the kids said, right? Maybe she doesn’t have anything to say to you.”

“Not helping,” Claggor hissed at him.

“Look, I’m just saying, if I was some mystery girl sneaking around my friends’ older sister, I’d at least have the guts to—”

“Shut up, Mylo,” Vi snapped, her fist cracking against the dummy’s chest with enough force to send it screeching. She stood there, breathing hard, her knuckles aching under the tape. “She’s hiding something. And whatever it is, it’s keeping Powder and Ekko away from me.”

Claggor frowned, his brow furrowed. “You think she’s keeping them away? That doesn’t sound like what they’ve been saying about her.”

“They don’t know, Claggor. Powder’s too trusting, and Ekko—he just thinks she’s cool. But me? I don’t trust anyone who hides in the shadows like that. It’s shady.”

“You’re shady,” Mylo quipped, leaning back on his crate with a smirk.

Vi ignored him, slamming her fist into the dummy one last time. The whirring machine teetered and groaned, releasing fumes and settling back into its stationary pose. The score on the right wall went up, beating Vi's previous score by a landslide.

Claggor sighed, standing up and brushing crumbs off his hands. “Look, maybe she’s just waiting for the right time. Or maybe—crazy idea here—you could just ask Powder or Ekko to set up a meeting instead of, you know, pulverizing a metal dummy. A dummy, which, may I add, Vander had made specifically for you not more than 2 months ago.”

Mylo grinned, nudging Claggor. “What’s the fun in that? This is way more entertaining.”

Vi shot him a withering glare. “If Echo thinks she can hang around my family for a year and keep me in the dark, she’s got another thing coming.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mylo said, waving her off. “Just don’t break the dummy. Benzo’s not making another one.”

Vi picked up her towel and wiped the sweat from her face, her mind still burning with unanswered questions. 

Because if Echo thought she could waltz into her family’s lives, stay hidden for a year, and keep her distance like that, she had another thing coming.

---

The kids, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in Vi’s mind, were busy hatching their plan. Their heads were close together, voices low but animated as they whispered excitedly.

“We’ll say we’re going scavenging,” Ekko whispered, his hands miming a casual wave like it was the simplest plan ever conceived. “It’s perfect. No pressure.”

Powder nodded so enthusiastically that her messy hair bounced with every movement. “And then they’ll have to meet! And then they’ll have to like each other!” She clapped her hands together, grinning. “Perfect.”

Ekko squinted at her, clearly skeptical. “You think they’re gonna get along just like that? You’ve seen Nyra when someone new gets too close. She’s like a cornered cat.”

Powder huffed, crossing her arms. “Well, Vi’s not exactly a ray of sunshine either, but she’s still amazing. She’ll win Nyra over in like…” She tapped her chin, thinking. “A day.”

“Win her over? Nyra’s gonna destroy her, Powder” Ekko said, leaning back with the confidence of someone placing a bet on a sure thing.

Powder gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. “Take that back!”

“Why would I? Nyra’s, like, super smart and sneaky. Vi won’t even know what hit her,” Ekko said, wagging his finger like he was Nyra lecturing a clueless student.

Powder rolled her eyes so hard they nearly disappeared. “Vi’s way tougher than Nyra. She’d squash her like a bug.”

“Nyra doesn’t need to be tough. She’s clever.” Ekko smirked. “Brains beat brawn. Everyone knows that.”

Powder jabbed a finger at him. “That’s what people say when they don’t have brawn. Which, by the way, Nyra doesn’t. Vi’s gonna mop the floor with her.”

Ekko groaned, throwing his hands in the air. “Nyra would outsmart her. Like, right away. Probably tie her shoelaces together or something.”

Powder threw up her arms in exasperation. “That wouldn’t even work! Vi doesn’t wear shoelaces!”

Ekko froze, his argument derailed for a moment. “Okay, fine, bad example. But you know what I mean!”

Their bickering reached a fever pitch before dissolving into giggles, the tension melting away as quickly as it came. Powder wiped at her eyes, still laughing. “Fine. Let’s just get them in the same place first. Then we’ll see.”

---

Recruiting Vi was Powder's job, and she approached it with all the subtlety of a cannonball. Tugging on Vi’s sleeve at the Last Drop, she flashed her sister her best puppy-dog eyes.

“Vi,” she started sweetly, her voice taking on that sing-song quality Vi instantly recognized as suspicious. “Will you come scavenging with us tomorrow? Please?”

Vi raised an eyebrow, still wrapping up her knuckles. “What’s the catch?”

Powder gasped, all wide-eyed innocence. “No catch! We just…might need your help. You know, in case we find something big.”

Ekko, hovering just behind Powder, chimed in. “Or heavy. Like, really heavy.”

Vi side-eyed them both, suspicion written all over her face. “And that Echo girl you keep hanging out with? What’s she doing?”

Powder hesitated for just a beat too long before blurting, “She’s got noodle arms!”

Ekko nearly choked. “She does not!” he said, glaring at Powder.

Powder hissed under her breath, “We’re lying!”

“I’m not lying about her arms,” Ekko shot back, crossing his own. “She’s way stronger than you think.”

Vi’s eyes narrowed. “This is starting to sound like a setup.”

“It’s not!” they both yelped, their voices cracking under the weight of their unconvincing enthusiasm.

Vi’s lips twitched like she was fighting a smirk. “Alright, fine. I’ll come. But if this turns out to be some kind of trap—”

“It’s not a trap!” Powder interrupted, grinning far too wide. “We’re just being responsible for once.”

Vi let out a short laugh, shaking her head as she stood. “You two are terrible liars, you know that?”

As Vi walked off, Ekko turned to Powder, indignant. “Noodle arms? Really?”

Powder shrugged. “You’re the one who said she’d win. What was I supposed to say?”

Ekko groaned. “Literally anything else.”

Powder grinned mischievously. “Like, ‘Vi’s gonna mop the floor with her?’”

Ekko rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of his head. “Let’s just make sure they don’t actually kill each other, okay?”

“Deal,” Powder said, holding out her pinky. They shook on it with mock solemnity before breaking into laughter again.
---

Nyra arrived at the meeting spot first, as expected. She leaned against a rusted lamppost, her face calm, but her mind churned beneath the surface. She wasn’t nervous—Nyra didn’t get nervous—but the kids’ insistence on this meeting left her on edge. The air was damp and heavy, carrying the faint metallic tang of the nearby scrapyard. She tugged her jacket tighter around herself, her fingers brushing the notepad in her pocket for reassurance.

The crunch of heavy boots on gravel pulled her from her thoughts. Nyra glanced over her shoulder, her stomach flipping when she recognized the bright hair and no-nonsense stride.

Oh no.

Vi stopped a few feet away, arms crossed, eyebrows raised in a look that could curdle milk. Her gaze swept over Nyra like she was assessing a problem she hadn’t decided whether to punch or fix.

Nyra’s fingers twitched toward her notepad but stopped short. She exhaled sharply, her hands snapping into motion instead as the kids came sprinting into view behind Vi. "What is SHE doing here?"

Vi squinted, her lip curling. “Oh, great. Gang signs. Very welcoming.”

Powder skidded to a stop first, her breathless voice breaking the tension like a squeaky hinge. “Pink! This is Ny—uh, Echo! Isn’t she cool?”

Vi raised an eyebrow at her sister, a slow smirk creeping onto her face. “This is Echo? Seriously?” Her tone dripped with disbelief as her head tilted, her eyes narrowing like she was trying to spot the punchline. “The one you two won’t shut up about?”

Nyra stiffened, her jaw tightening as her hands moved again, sharp and deliberate.

Powder tilted her head. “What’s she saying?”

Ekko sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “She says, uh, she didn’t know that this brute was your sister, Blue.”

Nyra stiffened, her eyes narrowing as she studied Vi with fresh clarity. Powder’s sister. Of all people. Her hands twitched toward her notepad, but she stopped herself, biting the inside of her cheek instead.

Vi’s smirk vanished, her expression hardening. “Brute, huh? That what we’re going with?”

Powder’s gasp cut through the tension like a cracked bell. “Echo!” she scolded, her wide eyes darting between her sister and her friend. “Don’t call her that!”

Nyra shrugged, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, her chin tilted in quiet defiance. She didn’t bother signing a response; the weight of her glare said enough.

Vi let out a low laugh, sharp and cold. “Oh, this is good. Real good. Guess you forgot who bailed you out last time you got in over your head, huh?”

Nyra’s mouth pressed into a thin line, and her hands snapped a retort that Ekko was too slow to catch. She pulled out her notepad instead, scribbling something furiously and thrusting it toward Powder.

Powder read it aloud, her voice small: “‘I didn’t ask for your help.’”

Vi snorted, sharp and cutting. “Yeah, I remember. You were too busy cowering to ask for anything.”

Nyra’s scribbling turned furious. She thrust the notepad toward Ekko this time, her eyes daring him to soften the blow.

Ekko hesitated, then sighed. “Uh, she says you should mind your own business, Pink. And maybe stop being so... uh...”

“So rude!” Powder finished, fists planted on her hips.

Vi’s laugh was sharp, a bark of disbelief. “Rude? That’s rich. Coming from someone who let two kids do her talking and her fighting.”

Ekko winced, raising his hands in surrender. “Whoa, okay. Timeout. This is not how this was supposed to go.” He turned to Vi, his voice pleading. “Pink, she’s not what you think. She’s cool—just different, okay?”

Powder jumped in, nodding furiously. “Yeah! Echo's the best! She’s smart and brave and, like, super good at finding stuff.”

Vi raised an eyebrow. “Finding stuff? Oh, great. What’s she gonna do, locate my patience?”

“Sis!” Powder’s voice cracked with frustration. She tugged on Vi’s arm, her wide eyes pleading. “Come on, Pink! You’ll like her if you just give her a chance!”

Vi shrugged her off, her frustration bubbling over. “What’s there to like? She’s got nothing to say unless it’s a snarky comeback. Big talk for someone who just sat in the shadows.”

Nyra’s hands moved so fast they blurred.

“She says she didn’t sit in the shadows,” Ekko translated quickly, tripping over the words. “She fought before you came, too. You just didn’t see it.”

Vi’s eyes narrowed, her voice lowering to a dangerous calm. “Yeah, sure she did.”

The air around them grew heavier, the gravel crunching faintly beneath Nyra’s boots as she shifted her stance. She scribbled something quickly and held it out to Ekko, her movements sharp enough to sting.

Ekko hesitated again, then mumbled, “Uh, she says, ‘You talk a lot for someone who doesn’t listen.’”

Vi’s smirk faltered, her lips tightening. She opened her mouth to reply, but Powder cut her off.

“Okay, STOP!” Powder’s shout startled them all. She stomped both feet this time, her small frame vibrating with anger. “You’re both being impossible!”

“Me?” Vi asked, pointing at herself, her frustration spilling out like water from a cracked dam.

“Yes, you! And Echo, too!” Powder huffed, spinning to glare at her friend. “Why can’t you just write something nice for once?”

Nyra’s lips twitched, as if biting back a reply, but she didn’t move to defend herself.

Ekko stepped in again, his voice edging toward desperation. “We’re all friends here, right? Or at least we could be. This was supposed to be fun!”

“Yeah, well,” Vi muttered, kicking a loose rock. “Guess not everyone’s as ‘cool’ as you thought.”

“You always do this!” Powder’s voice cracked, her eyes shining with frustrated tears. “Why can’t you just try to be nice?”

Powder huffed, spinning on her heel. “You’re the worst sometimes, Pink.” She grabbed Ekko’s sleeve, yanking him toward the alley’s exit. “C’mon, Ekko. Let’s go. They can figure it out.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ekko sighed, letting Powder drag him off. “Great idea. Let them ruin their own day.”

Nyra and Vi stood in silence, watching the kids retreat. The air between them felt sharp enough to cut. Gravel crunched as Vi shifted her weight, crossing her arms. “Well, look at that. Now they’re mad. Guess you really left an impression.”

Nyra’s fingers hovered near her notepad, her glare daring Vi to say more. But before she could write anything, Vi straightened up with a sigh. “Whatever. They shouldn’t be out there alone. I’ll go get them.”

Nyra’s eyes narrowed as Vi started to walk away, her confident stride making it clear she thought she was taking charge. Like she was the only one who cared.

Oh, no.

Nyra yanked out her notepad and scribbled furiously, then jogged to catch up, holding the page up as she overtook Vi.

Vi slowed down just enough to read the bold scrawl: “I’m not letting YOU handle this.”

Vi barked a short laugh, her pace quickening again. “Oh, really? You think you’re gonna out-sister me? Good luck, ‘Echo.’”

Nyra tucked the notepad away, her jaw tightening as she silently matched Vi’s stride. The two stalked through the dimly lit streets in tense, begrudging silence, their mutual stubbornness locking them into an unspoken competition.

Ahead of them, the distant sound of Powder’s voice drifted through the air. Vi shot Nyra a glance, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Guess we’ll see who gets there first.”

Nyra’s boots hit the ground faster and faster, her glare promising one thing: she wouldn’t be second.

Chapter Text

Mornings unfurled slowly in the dusty little hideout Nyra had started to think of as home—well, a home adjacent, if you didn’t count the drafty windows and the perpetually creaky floorboard that betrayed every quiet step. Neon light seeped in through the cracks like it, too, was testing the waters, and Nyra sat cross-legged on the floor, fingers curling awkwardly into shapes under Grudge’s unyielding stare.

“Wrong,” he grunted. “That’s ‘tomorrow.’ You’re trying to say ‘safe.’”

Nyra squinted down at her hands, then back up at him, lips twitching with the beginning of a smirk. “What if I meant ‘safe tomorrow?’”

Grudge’s sigh could have knocked the roof off. “You didn’t.”

He dropped his gnarled hands into his lap, signaled the correct motion with a flick of his thick fingers, and waited. It was, as always, a waiting game with him—one she didn’t mind losing as much anymore. Nyra mimicked the movement, slower this time, more deliberate. She glanced at him hopefully, and his frown deepened by approximately one millimeter.

“Better,” he allowed, like each word was worth its weight in gold.

For all his prickly, surly ways, Nyra had come to notice the faintest cracks in his armor. Where once he’d snarl at her presence or keep his instructions curt to the point of rudeness, now he lingered just a little longer. His gravelly warnings as he left—be safe, little rat—had softened, the insult losing its sting and gaining a strange warmth.

And then there were the nights.

Nyra had pretended to sleep once, curled tightly in her corner of the hideout, the dim glow of a lantern casting long shadows on the walls. She’d felt him there, his movements impossibly light for a man of his bulk. Through barely cracked eyelids, she’d watched as he tugged her boots free of their tangles, muttering something under his breath she couldn’t make out. His gnarled fingers—hands she’d only ever seen as tools of strength—worked with surprising gentleness, checking the soles and carefully tying the laces.

Another time, she’d woken to find her coat mended, the haphazard tears stitched so neatly she’d doubted her memory of them ever being there. When she’d made the mistake of mentioning it in passing, he’d shrugged and muttered something about “making you less likely to ask for a new one,” but Nyra wasn’t fooled. Grudge was careful in his care, like it was something he couldn’t admit to, even to himself.

This morning, though, the tenderness was buried beneath his usual crusty exterior. He tapped his knee, signaling for her to try another sign.

“Start again,” he said, voice low but firm. “If you’re gonna muck it up, at least do it properly.”

Nyra rolled her eyes but obeyed, forming the signs with deliberate precision. “Safe,” she signed, then added, “tomorrow,” just to see the corner of his mouth twitch.

For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, the odd rhythm of their mornings unfolding like clockwork. Grudge nodded once, a rare sign of approval, then pushed himself to his feet with a grunt.

“Be safe, little rat,” he muttered on his way out, the door creaking shut behind him before she could answer.

Nyra watched him go, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.

For all his grumbling, she thought, he cared in the ways that mattered.

And sometimes, that was enough.
---

Nyra’s mornings with Grudge had become her only consistent peace. The rest of her days? Not so much.

If the kids had initially hoped that Vi and Nyra’s mutual irritation would fade over time, they’d been sorely mistaken. Eight months later, the tension between the two had only sharpened, settling into a rhythm of mutual disdain. If Nyra gave a suggestion, Vi dismissed it with an arched brow and a biting comment. If Vi barked an order, Nyra responded with a silent glare or a snarky note.

Their ongoing cold war had become the backdrop to Ekko and Powder’s lives, though the kids now took it in stride, the way one might get used to a leaky faucet or a particularly noisy flock of birds.

“Are they fighting again?” Powder groaned one afternoon, throwing her arms in the air as Vi and Nyra squared off yet again—this time over whether Powder needed to carry a knife for safety.

“She’s eight,” Nyra had scribbled her thoughts down furiously, her pen slicing through the air like a blade.

“Exactly,” Vi shot back, her voice rising. “She’s eight, and she lives here, not in some bedtime story. You think the streets care how old she is?”

Ekko had wisely taken the opportunity to pull Powder aside and slip out the door. “Let’s give ‘em a minute,” he muttered. “Or, like, an hour.”

The truth was, neither Nyra nor Vi was particularly interested in proving themselves to the other. Nyra saw no reason to bend to someone as brash and reckless as Vi, someone who treated every problem like a nail and herself as the hammer. Meanwhile, Vi was convinced Nyra was no better than a cornered rat—quick to run, sharp when pressed, but ultimately unreliable.

Vi’s frustration was compounded by something worse: resentment. Nyra had been a stranger to her family—her family—until almost two years ago. Powder and Ekko adored her, of course. They followed Nyra to rooftops and alleys like she was the Pied Piper. Powder, especially, had latched onto Nyra’s quieter, more deliberate ways, a contrast to Vi’s boldness. And though Ekko wouldn’t admit it, he’d taken to practicing some of Nyra’s tricks, learning how to move unnoticed and see what others missed.

It stung. Not that Vi would admit it.

“She’s got no right telling me what’s best for my sister,” Vi had muttered to Mylo one day, her fists clenched so tight they trembled.

“And you’ve got no right to let her live rent-free in your head,” Mylo had quipped, earning himself a well-aimed smack upside the head.

And then there were the names. Powder had once almost slipped, nearly calling her sister by her real name in front of Nyra, but Vi had shut that down immediately.

“You call me Pink, and that’s it,” she’d hissed, her voice quiet and demanding. “And you definitely don’t tell her yours. I don’t trust her, and until I do—which won’t happen—she doesn’t need to know anything more than what she already does.”

Powder had pouted but obeyed, even if she didn’t fully understand. She liked Nyra. She trusted Nyra. But for Vi, it wasn’t about what Nyra had or hadn’t done. It was about walls, about control, about keeping a stranger—one she hadn’t chosen—out of what little she had left.

For her part, Nyra viewed Vi as little more than a reckless guard dog, barking orders and throwing punches without thinking things through. To her, Vi’s constant need to prove herself was just evidence of insecurity. She’d watched Vi fight enough to see the cracks in her strength—the places where raw force faltered, where precision and planning might have served better.

But no, Nyra didn’t point that out. She simply watched, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval that only fueled Vi’s fire.

This ongoing stalemate wasn’t lost on Ekko and Powder. By now, they’d learned to steer clear when the two were at each other’s throats, which was often. 

“They’re like cats and dogs,” Ekko grumbled to Powder one evening as they perched on their favorite rooftop.

“More like two cats,” Powder said, swinging her legs. “Big, angry ones.”

“Fine. Cats,” Ekko agreed. “But, like, the loud kind.”

Even if they didn’t get along, Vi and Nyra had one thing in common: they both thought they knew best. And as far as the kids were concerned, that was the root of all their problems.
---

Not everyone found Vi and Nyra’s relentless rivalry exhausting, however. In fact, for Mylo, it was nothing short of comedy gold.

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” he whispered one afternoon, leaning against a crate as Vi and Nyra squared off over something ridiculous—again.

“Don’t,” Claggor warned, already weary.

“They’re like a traveling circus,” Mylo continued, his grin widening. “No, wait—better. A circus with rabid animals. You don’t not watch that.”

Claggor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as Vi jabbed a finger toward Nyra, who responded with an exaggerated, mocking shrug. “It’s not funny, Mylo. They’re like powder kegs. One day, they’re gonna explode, and guess who’s gonna have to pick up the pieces?”

“You,” Mylo said cheerfully, earning a glare from Claggor.

“Me,” Claggor agreed grimly. “So maybe don’t encourage them?”

“Encourage them?” Mylo gasped, feigning offense. “I’m just an innocent bystander, Claggor. A spectator in the grand drama of life. If they want to duke it out, who am I to stop them?”

Claggor muttered something under his breath about “immature idiots” while Mylo settled in like he was watching a stage play.

Sure enough, Vi and Nyra’s latest clash over whether Powder was “too short” to carry a rooftop route pack ended in Nyra stomping off and Vi shouting after her. Mylo, for his part, clapped in approval.

“Five out of ten,” he declared. “Would’ve been a six if Nyra had flipped her the bird on her way out.”

Claggor just shook his head, muttering, “Unbelievable,” as he followed to make sure the chaos didn’t spread.
---

A little while before Nyra became a semi-regular fixture in Mylo and Claggor’s lives, she had been sitting on a rooftop with Powder and Ekko, the three of them indulging in one of their favorite pastimes: people-watching. Or, in Nyra’s case, people-studying.

She perched cross-legged on the rooftop edge, notepad in hand, scribbling down observations with the focus of someone drafting a master plan. Powder lay sprawled beside her, absentmindedly fiddling with a loose string on her sleeve. Ekko crouched nearby, scanning the streets below like he was waiting for something interesting to happen.

“You’re too serious,” Powder said, propping herself up on her elbows to peer at Nyra’s notes. “What’s so great about writing down boring stuff like ‘Guy with weird hat walks by every day at noon’?”

“It’s about patterns,” Nyra signed, unfazed. “People have habits. Habits are predictable.”

“Predictable is boring,” Powder declared with a dramatic flop back onto the rooftop.

“Predictable is smart,” Ekko countered, eyeing Nyra’s notes with curiosity. “I mean, it’s kinda cool. You can see stuff other people don’t.”

Nyra smirked faintly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Powder groaned, rolling onto her side. “Great. Now you’ve got Ekko being boring too.”

But before Nyra could retort, a raucous burst of laughter erupted from the street below.

The three of them leaned over the edge, peering down like a trio of nosy gargoyles. Below, Vi, Mylo, and Claggor ambled through the crowd, their voices carrying over the usual buzz of the street. Mylo’s voice cut through particularly loud, each word laced with a level of confidence that practically begged the universe to humble him.

“...And that’s why I’m the smartest one in this dump,” Mylo declared, loudly enough to draw stares.

“More like the loudest,” Claggor muttered, though not quietly enough.

The universe, it seemed, was listening. A group of older kids loitering near a stall caught the tail end of Mylo’s declaration, and their expressions shifted from bored to annoyed in an instant.

“What’d you say, twig?” one of them called out, stepping forward with a shove.

Mylo, naturally, took this as an invitation to escalate. “I said I’m smarter than all of you combined, big guy! Want me to draw you a picture so you can keep up?”

The shove turned into a scuffle faster than Nyra could blink. One of the older kids threw a punch, catching Mylo off guard and knocking him to the ground. That’s when Vi stepped in.

“Alright, that’s enough!” she barked, her fists already flying.

It was chaos. Vi fought like she always did—brash, unrelenting, and with a good amount of recklessness. Claggor tried to step in as peacekeeper, but keeping Vi out of a fight was like trying to stop a storm with an umbrella. Mylo, meanwhile, dusted himself off and threw himself back into the fray, yelling insults that weren’t particularly clever but made up for it in volume.

From the rooftop, Powder was practically vibrating with excitement. “Get ‘em, Sis!” she cheered, punching the air.

Ekko, less enthused, crossed his arms. “They’re outnumbered. This isn’t smart.” He secretly enjoyed watching Vi fight, taking mental notes of her moves, notes which would come in handy late at night during his "training sessions", as he'd like to call his clumsy reenactments.

Nyra remained silent, her notepad forgotten in her lap as she watched Vi fight. Her expression was unreadable. There was no denying Vi’s strength, but her recklessness was glaring. She swung wildly, putting power into every hit but leaving herself open in ways Nyra couldn’t ignore.

For a moment, Nyra hesitated, her hands gripping the edge of the rooftop. Then, she took a deep breath and made a decision.

“Ekko, Blue,” she signed, her movements calm. “Go down that alley and make some noise. Something loud—something that’ll make those kids think reinforcements are coming.”

Ekko nodded, grabbing Powder’s hand and dragging her along despite her protests. Moments later, the sound of a metal pipe clanging against a wall echoed through the street. Using one of those pipes, Ekko made his voice boom through the alley, shouting profanities and warnings to the kids currently fighting Mylo, Vi, and Claggor.

It worked like a charm. The older kids scattered, muttering curses about "street rats bringing their friends when they're about to lose" as they ran.

Vi stood there, panting, her fists still raised. She turned to Nyra, who was now standing at street level, arms crossed and expression cool.

“What was that for?” Vi demanded, scowling. “We had it under control.”

“Sure you did,” Nyra wrote in her notepad, shoving it in Vi's face and tilting her head. “That’s why the twig boy was on the ground.”

“Hey! I'm not a 'twig boy'!” Mylo interjected, brushing dirt off his shirt. “And I was luring them into a false sense of security!"

Claggor groaned, rubbing his temples. “Why do I hang out with you?”

Vi narrowed her eyes at Nyra, the tension crackling between them like a live wire. “Next time, stay out of it. We don’t need help from a mouse.”

Nyra just smiled—a small, knowing thing that somehow made Vi’s irritation spike. “You’re welcome,” she wrote matter-of-factly, walking away with a flick of her wrist.

That was how it started: with fists, insults, and a distraction that proved Nyra was as sharp as Vi was stubborn. Mylo, at least, seemed impressed. Claggor? Less so. But one thing was clear—Nyra had entered their orbit, and things would never be the same.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The air in the room was heavy, laced with the acrid tang of chemicals and the faint dampness of mildew. A flickering bulb overhead threw jagged shadows against the walls, turning the three figures into distorted silhouettes.

The one by the massive window stood ramrod straight, his gaunt frame casting an elongated shadow across the room. The light caught the sharp edge of his profile as he turned his head slightly, speaking with an icy authority that filled every corner of the space.

“The end of crawling in the dark is upon us,” he said, his voice smooth but coiled tight, like a snake preparing to strike. “Oppression breeds innovation. Revolution thrives in the shadows. We’re almost there.”

At a battered worktable nearby, another man remained hunched over, engrossed in his work. The faint clink of glass punctuated the silence as his hands moved with methodical precision. Rows of vials gleamed in the dim light, their contents shifting between eerie purples and violent greens. The hiss of a burner added an undercurrent of menace to the room.

“Two years,” he murmured, not bothering to look up. His voice was clinical, devoid of excitement or doubt. “Maybe less. It depends on variables I cannot control.”

The figure near the center of the room—a man built like a wall, with tension radiating from his every move—snorted, crossing his arms. His pacing boots scuffed against the stone floor, a grating rhythm that let slip his frustration.

“We don’t have two years,” he said sharply, his tone biting. “We can’t keep playing this game, working in the dark like vermin. We need to act—soon.”

The man by the window turned his head slowly, his gaze cold and deliberate, pinning the pacing figure in place. “You think the surface will welcome us with open arms? That the oppressed rise with brute force alone?” His voice was measured, like the blade of a scalpel. “Progress isn’t made by rushing into the light. It’s cultivated in the shadows. A quiet revolution.”

The brooding man stiffened, his jaw tightening. “Quiet doesn’t win wars,” he muttered, looking away.

The man at the worktable chose that moment to speak, his voice calm and dispassionate, like he was commenting on the weather. “Quiet may not win, but rash action guarantees loss.” He finally turned his head slightly, his face shadowed but his glasses catching the light, turning his eyes into two bright discs. “What we’re building is delicate. Dangerous. Too soon, and it fails. Too late, and it’s irrelevant. The timeline is what it is.”

“Will it work?” the leader asked, his tone sharper now, an edge of command creeping in.

The scientist—if that’s what he was—turned back to his work. “It will change everything. Strength. Resilience. Power beyond anything they’ve ever known. For those who survive.” He said it so matter-of-factly that the words hit harder.

The brooding man’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “And for those who don’t survive?”

“Collateral,” the leader replied coldly. His lips curved into a faint, joyless smile. “Every revolution demands sacrifice.”

The pacing figure stopped, his shoulders stiff. His head turned slightly, as if to say something, but no words came. Instead, he resumed his pacing, slower this time, his heavy steps echoing like a heartbeat.

The quiet hiss of chemicals and the flicker of the bulb filled the silence that followed. The vast room felt smaller now, more oppressive, as if the weight of their unspoken truths pressed against the walls.

Finally, the leader spoke again, softer now but no less commanding. “Stay the course. The time will come, and when it does, the world will see what the oppressed can become.”

---

The wooden floorboards groaned softly under Nyra’s careful steps as she tiptoed toward the front door. Each creak felt like a cannon blast in the silence, her heart pounding like a guilty drum. Her shoes dangled from one hand, and in the other, her ever-present notebook.

Reaching the porch, she slipped her shoes on and let out a small breath of relief—until a plume of smoke drifted lazily into view, illuminated by the dim glow of a lantern.

Grudge sat hunched in his usual chair, a cigarillo pinched between his fingers and a newspaper spread out before him. His cerulean eyes stayed fixed on the print, his expression unreadable beneath the haze of smoke.

“Sneaking out already?” His voice cut through the quiet, rough as gravel but annoyingly calm. “Aren’t you a bit young for that, little rat?”

Nyra froze, her mouth dropping open slightly before snapping shut in annoyance. She exhaled through her nose and signed with exaggerated motions, "I’m not sneaking out. Blue invited me for a sleepover. And Ekko’s coming too.”

Grudge didn’t even glance her way, flipping the page of his newspaper like it was far more interesting than her excuses. “Hmm,” he grunted, puffing on his cigarillo. “I don't need details. Just go. But if you catch so much as a whiff of trouble, you turn tail and run. Got it?”

Nyra narrowed her eyes at him, her hands hovering mid-air before she settled on signing a curt "Fine."

She started down the steps, the loose planks wobbling beneath her feet. A small smile tugged at her lips as she adjusted her coat. Despite his gruff exterior, Grudge’s permission always carried the tiniest hint of unspoken care.

“Lil' rat.” His voice stopped her in her tracks.

She turned to see him still lounging in his chair, his cigarillo leaving a smoky trail as he gestured lazily at her. “Button up that coat, or you’ll catch a cold,” he grumbled around the cigarillo in his mouth, his tone a mix of irritation and something else.

Nyra’s smile widened, though she made a show of rolling her eyes before buttoning her coat. She gave him a two-fingered salute, her steps lighter as she disappeared into the night.

Grudge exhaled a long plume of smoke, shaking his head as he muttered to himself. “Kids these days. Always running off into the night.”

He turned the page of his newspaper, though his eyes lingered on the lantern’s soft glow for a moment longer, watching the dark path Nyra had just taken. 
---
The children’s room in the Last Drop was as chaotic as ever—blankets draped over chairs, a pillow fort in progress in one corner, and Powder perched on a crate, tying knots in a rope like she was rigging a pirate ship. Nyra adjusted her coat as she followed Ekko inside, her notebook tucked under her arm. She walked over to Powder and gave her a bone-crushing hug. She didn’t miss the sight of Vi lounging against the wall, her newly buzzed hairstyle catching the low glow of the room’s flickering lights.

Nyra’s eyes widened for a brief moment before narrowing in mock scrutiny. She tilted her head like an artist considering a half-finished canvas, then raised her hands to sign, "Nice attempt at looking like a rebel. Forgot to tell the barber to cut the other half?" She smirked, pleased that she could, as always, tease Vi without her knowing what Nyra was saying.

Powder gasped, her hands flying to cover her mouth as if Nyra had committed treason.

Vi's lips twitched upward in a dangerous smirk. Without missing a beat, she raised her own hands and signed back with an exaggerated flourish, "At least I can speak in gang signs too, now."

The room erupted.

Claggor nearly choked on his own spit, adjusting the goggles that Nyra had given him while stammering, “Pink—when did you start learning sign language? We live with you, and I’ve never seen you practice!”

Mylo, meanwhile, fell backward onto the rug, clutching his stomach as laughter wracked his entire body. “This—this is comedy gold!” he wheezed, pointing weakly at Nyra like she was the star of the show.

But Nyra wasn’t laughing. Her mouth opened and closed silently, her thoughts scrambling to catch up. She just stood there, mouth slightly open, looking from Vi to her notebook and back like her brain was buffering. 

Vi, ever the opportunist, pounced. She raised her hands to sign with slow deliberation, "You look like a fish. Should I throw you back into the water?"

Nyra blinked rapidly, snapping out of her stupor. Her fingers flew to form a rapid response: "Careful, half-haircut. If you lean too far to one side, you might tip over."

The room ooh-ed collectively. Mylo, still sprawled on the floor, gasped, “She got you there, Pink!”

Powder piped up from her perch. “I like it!” She was grinning ear to ear, clearly oblivious to the tension bubbling beneath the surface.

Vi’s smirk faltered, her expression souring as her sharp blue eyes locked onto Nyra. The air thickened, everyone watching for the inevitable clash. Claggor and Ekko exchanged wary glances, ready to pull them apart if things got physical. Powder shifted nervously, biting her nails.

Vi scowled, her lips pressed into a thin line. Instead of squaring up like everyone expected her to do—as usual—she sighed.

“Forget it,” she muttered, turning on her heel.

The laughter and chatter in the room faltered as Vi grabbed her jacket and headed for the stairs.

“Pink?” Claggor called, but she waved him off without looking back.

Without a word, she left the room, her boots thudding softly against the wooden steps as she made her way out of the Last Drop.

The silence she left behind was almost deafening.

“Uh…” Claggor broke it first, scratching the back of his neck. “Did she just—leave?”

“She sighed,” Mylo emphasized, sitting upright. “Since when does Pink sigh? She’s supposed to punch stuff, not… be all, I don’t know, dramatic.”

Nyra, still sitting stiffly, chewed the inside of her cheek. She didn’t sign anything, but her eyes lingered on the door where Vi had disappeared.

Powder tugged on her sleeve, her small voice breaking the quiet. “Did you make her mad?”

Nyra sighed and ran a hand through her hair, offering Powder a quick shake of her head before grabbing her notebook and scribbling something down. She flipped it to show Powder: "She’ll be fine. Probably just annoyed her gang signs aren’t perfect yet."

That earned a giggle from Powder, but Nyra’s smirk didn’t quite reach her eyes.

---

Nyra hesitated at the base of the stairs, her notebook clutched tightly against her chest. Following Vi wasn’t exactly her idea of fun, especially after the spat they’d just had. But something about Vi’s stormy expression and sudden departure gnawed at her. 

She steeled herself, taking a deep breath, and tiptoed up the stairs. As she reached the landing, the warm glow of the bar lights spilled out into the dim hallway. She paused when she spotted Vander behind the counter, methodically wiping down glasses and humming softly to himself.

He glanced up and immediately spotted her. “Echo,” he said, his deep voice tinged with warmth, “What are you doing skulking around like that? You lose something?”

She froze, caught like a deer in headlights, before shaking her head and shuffling closer.

Vander set the glass down, leaning on the counter with a fatherly smile. “Come on, then. What’s got you creeping around so late?”

Nyra hesitated, then shrugged. “Nothing important,” she signed with a flick of her hands, hoping he’d let it go.

He didn’t. “Uh-huh. And I’m the King of Piltover.” His tone was teasing, but his eyes were curious. He gestured for her to sit on one of the stools, and when she did, he slid a small cup of juice across the counter toward her.

“So,” he said, picking up another glass to clean. “Are you gonna tell me what’s bothering you, or do I have to guess?”

Nyra tapped her notebook nervously but didn’t write anything. Vander tilted his head.

“Let me help you out,” he said, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “Wouldn’t happen to know why my kid just stormed out of here like an angry cat, would you?” He arched an eyebrow, his tone light, but there was a glimmer of understanding in his eyes.

Nyra frowned, her cheeks heating up as she looked down at her feet. She tapped out a quick rhythm on the counter, avoiding his gaze.

Vander sighed, his grin softening into something more thoughtful. He set the glass aside and leaned closer, resting his forearms on the counter.

“Listen, Echo,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Those kids don’t always tell me what’s going on in their heads, but I’ve learned to watch. And I’ve seen you and - what did she want me to call her around you again? Ah, yes - Pink. I've seen you and Pink locking horns more often than not.”

Nyra gave a sheepish nod.

“She’s got a lot on her plate,” Vander continued. “Pink's always been the fiery one. Wants to protect everyone, prove herself. And you? You’re sharp. Quick on your feet, sharp with your words too, even if they come from your hands. You two? You clash because you’re more alike than you think.”

Nyra’s eyes widened, and she shook her head vehemently. Vander chuckled, ruffling her hair. “Oh, you can deny it all you want. But I know what I see.”

He leaned back slightly, resting his weight on the counter. “I had a brother once, you know,” he said, his tone shifting to something softer, almost wistful. “We used to fight like cats and dogs—always bickering, always competing. Drove everyone else mad.” He chuckled lightly, but there was a shadow behind his smile.

“But you know what?” Vander continued, his voice quieter now. “When we stopped trying to one-up each other and started working together, we were unstoppable. There’s nothing quite like knowing someone’s got your back, even when the world’s falling apart.”

Nyra noticed the flicker of guilt in his expression, the way his eyes dropped for a moment as if recalling something painful. But there was affection there too, a kind of soft warmth as he spoke about this man.

He cleared his throat, shaking off the solemnity, and reached under the counter, pulling out a small bag. He tossed it to her with a grin.

“Here. Bar biscuits. Best I can do for a late-night peace offering. Might not fix everything, but it’s a start.”

Nyra blinked at the bag in her lap, then looked up at him. She hesitated before giving him a small nod of gratitude.

“Good girl,” he said, his tone warm but firm. “Now, go find her. She might not say it, but she needs someone who understands her. You’ve got more patience than you think—use it.”

With that, Vander went back to cleaning glasses, humming softly to himself.

Nyra hopped off the stool, clutching the bag of biscuits. She paused at the doorway, looking back at Vander’s broad figure illuminated by the bar’s golden light. For a brief moment, the sight filled her with a strange warmth—something she hadn't felt in a while.

Then, steeling herself, she stepped out into the cool night air to find Vi.

---

Nyra searched every nook of the Last Drop's surroundings, peering in alleys and behind boxes, but Vi was nowhere to be found. Her brows knitted together in frustration until she remembered something Powder had said offhandedly once: her sister loved to go to a specific rooftop overlooking the Lanes when she needed space.

“That’ll be it,” Nyra thought, determination sparking. She headed out into the city, the cool air biting at her cheeks as she navigated the winding streets. Her boots scuffed against the uneven cobblestones as she passed houses bathed in the dim glow of flickering neon streetlights.

When she reached the familiar building, she glanced up, and there she was—Vi. Hood pulled up, back pressed against the chimney, her figure hunched like the weight of the world sat on her shoulders. Nyra pursed her lips, bending to scoop up a pebble.

The first pebble pinged against the rooftop, causing Vi to stiffen.

“Piss off,” Vi growled, not even looking her way. She yanked her hood tighter, her voice sharp and full of warning.

Nyra tilted her head, smirking to herself. She signed sarcastically from below, fully aware Vi couldn’t see her: “Oh, charming as ever.”

She picked up another pebble.

This one landed closer, but Vi didn’t react.

And then another.

By the fourth, Vi shot upright, her voice exploding into the stillness. “What do you want?!” she snapped, her glare burning even from above. “Come to make fun of me again? I’m not in the mood!”

Nyra rolled her eyes, her smirk unwavering. She scaled the building with practiced ease, her movements fluid and deliberate, until she stood on the rooftop, arms crossed and eyebrow raised like an exasperated teacher dealing with a stubborn student.

Vi glowered, turning her back to Nyra and resuming her silent fidgeting with the bandages on her hands.

Nyra sighed, plopping down a few feet away. She whistled a little tune to herself, breaking the tense silence, before signing slowly: “You okay?”

Vi scoffed, her lips twisting into a bitter grin. “Why would you care?” she muttered, her tone dripping with disdain. “You don’t care about me, and I sure as hell don’t care about you.”

Nyra puffed out an exaggerated breath, her eyes rolling skyward. She smirked, signing cheekily: “This about the joke I made about your hair? Got offended, didn’t you?”

Vi froze for a moment, her hands stilling. Then she turned to Nyra, her expression a mix of disbelief and irritation. “Me? Offended by something you said? Not a chance,” she said with a dismissive wave. “I don’t care about your opinion.”

Nyra raised an eyebrow knowingly, tilting her head.

Vi looked away with a huff, pulling her hood tighter again.

Nyra pressed on, her hands moving deliberately as she signed: “Just admit it. You got upset. Let me apologize, and we can stop this whole sulking thing.”

That did it.

Vi threw her hands up in frustration, nearly shouting, “You always think everything’s about you, don’t you?!” Her voice cracked slightly, her eyes blazing as she stared at Nyra. “You think you can just walk into my family, take what’s mine, and then act like it’s nothing? And then insult me—and no one bats an eye!”

Nyra’s smile fell, her hands dropping into her lap. She frowned deeply, signing with a measured pace: “Why do you dislike me so much, Pink? What did I do?”

Vi’s chest rose and fell as she fought to keep her emotions in check. Her hands went to her hair, tugging in frustration. “I don’t know!” she shouted, her voice echoing into the night.

The rawness of her words made Nyra flinch. Vi slumped back against the chimney, her energy draining as quickly as it had flared. “I don’t know,” she repeated, softer this time, her voice trembling. She rubbed her eyes with her bandaged hand.

Nyra hesitated, her fingers twitching slightly as if she wanted to sign something but didn’t know what. Instead, she scooted a little closer, keeping a careful distance.

Vi let out a long, heavy sigh, looking everywhere but at Nyra. She seemed to be avoiding the conversation entirely until Nyra, gathering her courage, reached out and lightly touched her shoulder.

Vi stiffened immediately, her head snapping around, eyes blazing again. Nyra recoiled, pulling her hand back as if burned.

Vi’s gaze softened when she saw the look on Nyra’s face. Her anger melted into something quieter, heavier. She sighed again, her hands falling into her lap.

A long pause.

“I guess…” she murmured, almost to herself. “I guess I see some of myself in you.”

Nyra blinked, her head tilting in confusion. She signed slowly: “What?”

Vi let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Or maybe it’s what I want to see. What I’d like to be. For them.” Her voice cracked again, softer now, as if the admission hurt her more than she’d expected.

Nyra’s eyes softened as she watched her.

Vi flicked a pebble across the rooftop, her eyes following it as it skittered into the darkness. “I didn’t want to lose them to someone who’s like… the better version of me.” She finally turned her gaze to Nyra, her eyes narrowed but not cruel. “Except for the cowardly streak, of course.”

Nyra scoffed, signing sharply: “Cowardly? Says the one hiding up here.”

For the first time, Vi’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though it quickly vanished. She shook her head, leaning back against the chimney, her gaze fixed on the distant rooftops.

The silence that followed was heavy, but not hostile. Nyra stared at the distant lights of the Lanes, her thoughts swirling as the silence between them grew heavier. She glanced sideways at Vi, who was fiddling with the bandages around her hands again, her expression unreadable.

Finally, Nyra signed, her movements slow but pointed: “You’re not as bad as you think, you know. They look up to you.”

Vi scoffed, not bothering to look at her. “You’re full of it,” she muttered, though the edge in her tone was softer than before.

Nyra smirked faintly, unbothered. “Blue doesn’t shut up about you,” she signed with a flourish, her hands moving like water. “And Claggor? Mylo? They listen. Even when Mylo’s pretending not to.”

Vi let out a low chuckle, surprising herself. “Yeah, right,” she said, shaking her head. “You make me sound like some kind of hero.”

Nyra raised an eyebrow, her grin growing. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she signed. “You’re more of a grumpy cat.”

That earned her a side-eye from Vi, who muttered, “Watch it.”

For a moment, the tension between them ebbed, the quiet broken only by the occasional creak of the rooftop and the faint hum of the city below.

Then Nyra signed, her expression curious. “Why won’t you tell me your name?”

Vi’s lips curled into a wry smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Because you haven’t earned it,” she said simply. “Names aren’t just words, you know. They mean something."

Nyra’s cheeks flushed, but she held her ground, crossing her arms and signing defiantly: “So what does it take, huh? What do I have to do to ‘earn’ it?”

Vi stared at her for a moment, as if considering her response. Finally, she shrugged, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “Figure it out,” she said, leaning back against the chimney. “If you’re as sharp as you think you are, you’ll manage.”

Nyra scowled, puffing out an annoyed breath. She signed quickly: “You’re impossible.”

“Yep,” Vi said, popping the “p” with a casual grin. “Better get used to it.”

Despite herself, Nyra couldn’t suppress the faintest of smiles. She let out a soundless huff, shaking her head. “You’re lucky I like your sister,” she signed, the motion more playful than frustrated.

Vi’s grin faded slightly, replaced by something softer. “She likes you too,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “That’s the only reason I haven’t run you off. Yet.”

Nyra raised an eyebrow, her smirk returning. She signed cheekily: “Aw, does that mean you tolerate me now?”

Vi rolled her eyes, though there was a flicker of amusement in her expression. “Don’t push your luck,” she muttered.

They sat in silence for a while after that, neither quite willing to break the fragile peace they’d found. When Nyra finally stood to leave, brushing the dust from her trousers, she glanced down at Vi one last time.

“I’ll figure it out,” she signed with a quick flick of her hands, her expression confident but not smug. 

Vi watched her for a moment, then nodded once, the barest hint of approval in her gaze. “You’d better,” she said gruffly, pulling her hood back up.

Nyra grinned cheekily and signed: "And for what it's worth - I'm sorry for making fun of your 'rebel hair'."

Vi rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, murmuring "Shut up."

As Nyra climbed down from the rooftop and disappeared into the shadows of the Lanes, Vi leaned her head back against the chimney, staring up at the night sky. She let out a long breath, her lips curving into a reluctant smirk as she noticed the bag of bar biscuits left by her side.

“Grumpy cat, huh?” she muttered to herself, softly touching the bag.

It wasn’t friendship. Not yet. But maybe, just maybe, it was a start.

Chapter Text

The hideout hummed with energy, a symphony of whirring tools, crackling wires, and the occasional exasperated groan. Nyra sat cross-legged on the floor, hunched over a battered workbench that looked like it might collapse under the weight of its chaotic contents. Her gloved hands moved with quiet precision, threading a wire through a small copper circuit board.

“Okay, now hold it steady,” she signed to Ekko with sharp, deliberate movements, her eyes flicking up to meet his.

Ekko squinted at her hands, nodding. “Got it, got it.” He leaned closer, gripping the half-assembled tack bomb with both hands. “But, uh, if this slips, how bad are we talking?”

Nyra paused her work, tilted her head, and gave him a look that said seriously? Then she signed with a quick flick of her fingers, "If it slips, just your pride. Maybe your eyebrows."

Ekko groaned. “Not my eyebrows again! You have any idea how long it takes to grow these things back?”

Nyra’s lips quirked upward in a teasing smile as she returned to her task. She tapped a wire into place, her deft movements a contrast to Ekko’s nervous fumbling. “Relax,” she signed with a shrug, adding a cheeky smirk. “It’ll be fine. Probably.”

Before Ekko could lob back another comment, the door burst open, rattling on its hinges. Powder tumbled in, a blur of wild energy and barely-contained excitement. Her boots skidded across the uneven floor as she thrust a cobbled-together device high above her head.

“Guess what?!” she shouted, practically bouncing. “The Mouser’s ready! It’s gonna be so good—I mean, like, boom good!”

Nyra and Ekko exchanged amused looks. Nyra straightened, removing her gloves and wiping her hands on a rag, while Ekko hopped off his crate, grinning ear to ear.

“No way,” Ekko said, eyes wide with curiosity. “Lemme see!”

Powder thrust the device toward him with all the reverence of presenting a sacred artifact. It looked like a cylinder had been force-fed a box of nails, then given to a small child to scribble a cartooney face on its top side. Nyra raised an eyebrow, equal parts impressed and concerned.

“Alright,” Powder declared, already halfway to the door. “Field test! Come on!”

Ekko grabbed Nyra’s arm, tugging her along. “We can’t miss this,” he said with a grin. Nyra sighed, a half-smile tugging at her lips, and let herself be dragged outside.

---

The narrow street outside was bathed in the unnatural neon hues of a late afternoon in the Lanes. Powder knelt in the middle of the road, cradling her Mouser with the kind of reverence most kids reserved for sweets. Nyra and Ekko stood a few paces behind her, watching with a mix of curiosity and mild apprehension.

A little farther off, Vi was sparring with Claggor and Mylo near a pile of crates. Her movements were sharp and deliberate, her fists slicing through the air with precision. Claggor swung a heavy punch, but Vi ducked, pivoting on her heel to land a swift jab to his side.

“Watch it, Mylo,” Vi called out, her tone smug as she briefly glanced over her shoulder at Nyra. “You’re next.”

“Not if you keep cheating!” Mylo shot back, his voice muffled as he wiped dirt from his face.

Nyra caught Vi’s gaze for a moment. The tension between them was palpable, though it had softened over the past year. Vi’s smirk widened slightly, her eyes glinting with challenge.

“Okay!” Powder shouted, pulling everyone’s attention back to her. She twisted Mouser's top, her expression pure, unfiltered joy. “Behold! The future of—”

POOF!

A thick cloud of pink smoke erupted, engulfing the street. Powder coughed and waved her hand through the haze, blinking rapidly as the Mouser fizzled and fell to the ground in a heap of useless metal. When the smoke cleared, she stood frozen, her smile wavering.

Nyra stepped closer, her hands moving quickly. “What happened?”

“It—” Powder’s voice cracked as she tried to sound cheerful. “It’s fine! It’ll work... someday!”

Ekko clapped her on the back. “Hey, it made smoke! That’s a solid start. Next time, maybe it’ll make sparks.”

He ran inside the hideout, shouting that it's his turn to try out his incapacitating bomb. Nyra and Powder watched him run and shook their heads.

Nyra crouched to retrieve the remnants of the Mouser. She turned it over in her hands, inspecting the damage, then signed with a small, encouraging smile, “You’re improving. It’s better than your last one.”

Powder hesitated, her smile faltering. But she nodded, her blue eyes flicking to the ground. “Thanks,” she mumbled.

Nyra frowned. She could see through Powder’s brave front like a cracked windowpane. Gently, she reached for Powder’s hand and tugged her toward a nearby crate.

Nyra tapped the crate, gesturing for Powder to sit. Powder flopped down, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I’m fine,” Powder said quickly, her voice high-pitched and unconvincing.

Nyra sat beside her and waited, her hands resting in her lap. She tilted her head, her gaze soft but firm, silently urging Powder to speak. Finally, Powder sighed.

“It’s just... I don’t get it,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I try so hard, but nothing ever works. Maybe I’m just... bad at this.”

Nyra’s expression softened. She reached out, brushing Powder’s messy hair from her face, and began signing, her movements slow and deliberate. “No one starts out perfect. Every failure means you’re closer to getting it right. You’re smart, baby Blue. You think of things I’d never dream of. That’s talent.”

Powder’s lips twitched upward, but the shadow in her eyes lingered. “Try telling Mylo that. He’s been teasing me all week.”

Nyra grinned, her fingers moving in quick, playful signs. “Want me to handle his annoying ass?”

Powder giggled, her laugh breaking the tension. “Nah. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he got to me.”

Nyra’s chest swelled with pride. She ruffled Powder’s hair again, her smile turning mischievous. “Atta girl.”

They both turned their heads as Ekko emerged from the hideout, carrying a device that rattled ominously with each step. “Okay, your turn to be impressed!” he declared, setting it down with exaggerated care.

Nyra signed to Powder, “Should we step back?”

Powder snickered. “Maybe just a little.”

Ekko ignored them, pressing a button with dramatic flair. The device hummed... sputtered... and went silent.

“Ugh!” Ekko groaned, throwing his hands in the air. “Why does nothing ever work?!”

Powder patted his shoulder, grinning. “Hey, you’re smart. It’ll work soon. Echo said so—and she’s way smarter than Mylo.”

Nyra bit back a laugh, her hands signing, “High praise. I’ll take it.”

Ekko rolled his eyes but couldn’t help grinning as the three of them headed back inside.

---

The failed Mouser still smoked faintly in the street, but Vi’s gaze lingered not on the device, but on her sister. Powder stood beside Nyra, her shoulders slumped in defeat as Nyra gently guided her toward a nearby crate. Vi hesitated, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. She wanted to step in, to comfort Powder the way only a sister could. But when she saw the gentle way Nyra pulled Powder aside, her small hands signing encouragement with a warmth Vi wouldn’t have expected, Vi’s tension eased—just slightly.

“You coming?” Mylo called from the doorway, his voice grating as ever.

Vi sighed heavily, watching Nyra and Powder for one more second before turning to follow Mylo and Claggor back inside.
---

The hideout’s dim interior felt almost welcoming compared to the unnatural brightness of the street. Tools clattered, scrap metal gleamed dully under the weak light, and the air carried the tang of solder and rust. Vi hadn’t taken two steps inside when Claggor turned to her, a hopeful grin spreading across his broad face.

“C’mon, Pink. Spar with me again?” he asked, bouncing slightly on his heels.

Vi huffed, but a faint smile tugged at her lips. “You sure you’re up for another beating?”

Claggor chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Someone’s gotta keep you on your toes.”

“Fine,” Vi said with a shrug. She tossed her jacket onto a nearby crate and rolled her shoulders, stretching her arms out as she stepped into an open space.

They squared off, and Claggor’s massive frame loomed over Vi’s lean, wiry form. He threw the first punch, a wide swing aimed at her shoulder. Vi ducked easily, pivoting to the side and jabbing at his ribs with lightning speed.

“Too slow,” she quipped, her grin sharp as a blade.

Claggor grunted, adjusting his stance. He came at her again, this time quicker, more calculated. But Vi was already moving, weaving around his strikes with practiced ease. Her footwork was fast and nimble, her punches precise. A year ago, she’d been scrappy, relying on brute force and stubbornness to win. Now, while she wasn't a world-class fighter and still took a few punches or two, she was more precise, more focused - she'd trained hard for that.

Off to the side, Mylo lounged on a crate, his arms crossed. “Careful,” he called out with a smirk. “You might actually hit him next time.”

Vi shot him a glare mid-dodge. “Wanna be next, Mylo?”

Mylo raised his hands in mock terror. “She’s gone mad with power!” he said, clutching his chest like he’d been struck by a mortal blow.

Vi rolled her eyes but used the distraction to slip under Claggor’s guard. With a swift kick to the back of his knee, she sent the massive boy toppling to the ground. He hit the floor with a loud thud, groaning as Vi straightened and extended a hand to help him up.

“You’re scary good,” Claggor muttered, rubbing his side as she pulled him to his feet.

Vi shrugged, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “Fighting’s important,” she said simply. Her gaze flicked to Nyra, who had just stepped inside with Powder and Ekko. Vi’s smirk returned, her tone dripping with challenge. “Not that everyone would understand.”

Nyra raised an unimpressed brow and made a face of disgust. Instead of responding, she signed curtly to Powder, “Back to work.”

As Vi leaned casually against a wall, catching her breath, Mylo sprang to his feet with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. He pointed a finger at Nyra, his grin wide and mischievous.

“Hey, Echo! How about a little sparring?” he said, bouncing on his toes like a boxer in the ring. “I’ll go easy on you.”

Nyra froze mid-step, her gaze snapping to him. She raised a single brow, her expression flat.

“What?” Mylo asked, shrugging. “Come on, don’t tell me you’re scared.”

Nyra narrowed her eyes, her lips pressing into a thin line. Her fingers moved swiftly as she signed, “You’re kidding.”

Mylo shook his head, grinning. “Nope. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Nyra sighed, long and dramatic, before tossing her tools onto the workbench. She stood slowly, her posture languid but her gaze sharp. With a deliberate flick of her hand, she gestured for Claggor to step aside, clearing the space. Mylo’s grin widened as he strutted to the center of the room.

“This’ll be quick,” he said confidently, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Nyra rolled her shoulders, sizing him up. While Mylo threw a few exaggerated jabs in the air, Nyra circled him, her movements smooth and calculated. She raised her hands, signaling she was ready.

“Alright, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Mylo taunted, throwing the first punch.

Nyra dodged it effortlessly, her body twisting out of the way like a whisper of smoke. Mylo tried again, this time with a wild swing aimed at her side. She ducked, slipping under his arm with startling agility.

“What the—stand still!” Mylo huffed, his frustration growing as Nyra continued to evade him with ease.

From the sidelines, Vi crossed her arms, watching intently. Her expression was unreadable, though her lips twitched as Nyra spun away from yet another one of Mylo’s clumsy strikes.

Finally, Nyra saw her opening. Mylo overextended on a punch, his balance wavering. In one fluid motion, she swept her leg low, catching him off-guard. His legs buckled, and he hit the ground with an audible oof.

For a moment, the room was silent, save for Mylo’s groan. Nyra stood over him, breathing heavily but triumphant. She smirked, her expression one of quiet pride.

Nyra extended a hand to Mylo, who took it reluctantly, grumbling under his breath. “I slipped, okay? The floor’s uneven.”

Nyra rolled her eyes playfully, signing with exaggerated flair, “Sure, Mylo. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Ekko and Powder burst into laughter, and even Claggor chuckled. Vi shook her head, her smirk returning as she watched Nyra straighten up.

Nyra brushed off her hands and was about to turn back to her workbench when Claggor broke the silence, his face a picture of confusion. “Okay, seriously—where’d you learn to do that? You’re not exactly the ‘throwing punches’ type.”

Nyra tilted her head, her hands pausing mid-movement as if weighing her response. Finally, she signed, “The man I live with now—Grudge.”

“Grudge?” Powder piped up, her head tilting in curiosity. “The man you told Vander about? Is he scary?”

Nyra smirked faintly and signed, “Not scary. Just... grumpy. Always brooding in his own corner.”

Ekko leaned closer, eyes widening. “Wait, the guy you’re staying with taught you how to fight? What does a broody old man know about fighting?” Ekko imitated a few fighting moves he learned from watching Vi and almost tripped over his feet.

Nyra chuckled silently, her shoulders shaking, then clarified with careful, deliberate signs. “Not how to fight. How to dodge, how to stay safe. He said I needed to protect myself—not to attack, just enough to run if things went bad.” Her lips quirked wryly as she added, “Said I should be as clever as the gadgets I build.”

Claggor nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds smart.”

Before the conversation could continue, Vi snorted from her corner, tossing a towel over her shoulder as she leaned against the wall. “Sounds fitting for a scared little mouse.”

Nyra’s gaze snapped to Vi, her eyes narrowing sharply. Her hands moved briskly, each sign like a knife slicing through the air. “I’m not scared, Brute. I just know when to fight—and when it’s smarter to save my energy.”

Vi’s eyebrows lifted, her smirk spreading like a challenge accepted. “That so?”

Nyra straightened, her expression unwavering. She signed, “Yes.”

Vi crossed her arms, leaning forward just enough to be intimidating. “And what would you do if you couldn’t run? Huh, E-c-h-o? Let me guess: duck and hope for the best?”

Nyra’s hands twitched, a flicker of irritation crossing her face. Instead of taking the bait, she let out a long, exaggerated sigh and turned to Powder and Ekko. “Unlike some people,” she signed dramatically, “I have things to do.”

Powder giggled behind her hand. Ekko smirked, muttering under his breath, “Good call.”

Vi chuckled as Nyra turned away. “Go ahead and play with your little toys, Mouse. Don’t work too hard.”

Nyra spun on her heel just long enough to sign over her shoulder, “And don’t get too comfortable in your corner, Brute. You’ll need it to sulk when you lose.”

Vi blinked, her smirk faltering for half a second before she barked out a laugh. “Alright, Mouse. You win this round.”

Nyra’s lips curved into a subtle, triumphant smile as she joined Ekko and Powder at the workbench. Powder leaned closer, whispering loudly, “Do you think she’s mad?”

Nyra shrugged and signed with a small flick of her wrist, “Your sister? Always.”

Powder dissolved into giggles while Ekko shook his head, grinning as he handed Nyra a set of tangled wires. Outside the sparring corner, Vi shook her head, a faint smirk still tugging at her lips as she returned to her drills. For a moment, she glanced at Nyra, muttering under her breath, “Always knows when to run, huh?”

Nyra, catching the glance but saying nothing, bent back over the workbench. A small, secret smile flickered on her face as she signed to Ekko, “Let’s get back to work. I’ve got an idea.”

And with that, the hideout buzzed with tinkering, quipping, and the occasional sound of Vi’s punches hitting the mechanical dummy cutting through the air.

---

The house was a patchwork of creaking wood and lingering shadows, its crooked walls filled with the faint tang of rust and the sharp bite of cigarillo smoke. Grudge sat in his usual spot—a wobbly chair pulled up to a rickety table cluttered with mismatched tools, bloody cloths, and a bottle full of disinfectant. A thin stream of smoke curled up from the cigarillo perched between his lips, coiling lazily toward the cracked ceiling.

Nyra sat across from him, her elbows propped on the table, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm. The leather pouch at her hip jangled softly as she shifted, its weight pressing against her side like a secret she was dying to share.

For once, Grudge had stayed after their usual sign language session instead of vanishing behind a grumble and a slammed door. He was pretending to read a battered old newspaper, but Nyra caught him glancing her way every so often—just quick enough to seem accidental.

She wasn’t fooled.

She tapped on the table twice, just enough to draw his gaze. When he finally looked up, she signed, “I have an idea.”

Grudge raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was torn between curiosity and dread. “That so?” he muttered, his voice as gravelly as the floorboards under his boots.

Nyra nodded enthusiastically, her hands flying into motion. “Come with me to the Last Drop tonight.”

The words hung in the air like a spark waiting for kindling. Grudge puffed on his cigarillo, exhaling a slow plume of smoke that curled between them like a barrier. “Why?”

Nyra hesitated, her fingers faltering for half a second before she steeled herself. She leaned forward, her expression earnest. “Because while you’ve been as cold and distant as a frozen pipe for the past three years, I know you care at least a little bit about me.”

Grudge froze mid-puff, his eyes narrowing as though he were trying to decide if he should laugh, scoff, or walk out entirely.

Nyra plowed on, undeterred. “And because I care about you too. You saved my life, gave me shelter. Took care of me even when you didn’t have to.”

Grudge snorted, flicking ash into a tin can on the table. “You’ve got a funny way of showing gratitude, little rat.”

Nyra shot him a look and reached into her pouch. With a dramatic flourish, she pulled out a small bundle of coins and jangled them triumphantly. “I saved up for this. A proper drink. None of that swamp muck you call whiskey.”

Grudge’s gaze flicked to the coins, his brow furrowing. “Four coins? That won’t buy more than a sip.”

Nyra rolled her eyes and stood, planting herself firmly in front of him. She jingled the bag again, as if its sound alone could wear down his defenses. “It’s enough. And anyway, it’s not about the drink. It’s about...” She gestured vaguely, her hands fluttering before she found the word. “You. Us. Being... not terrible for once.”

Grudge leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a sigh so heavy it seemed to rattle the walls. He looked away, muttering something under his breath that Nyra couldn’t catch.

Finally, he exhaled sharply and waved a hand. “Fine. But if this turns into a disaster, it’s on you.”

Nyra’s face lit up like a spark catching kindling. She spun on her heel, practically skipping to the small shelf she called a wardrobe. She rummaged through its meager contents before pulling out a shirt—a deep blue one that was only slightly frayed at the cuffs.

“This is my nice shirt,” she signed, grinning. “We’re going tonight. And don’t worry—I already told my friends to behave. No one’s going to throw anything at you.”

Grudge raised an eyebrow, but his lips twitched in what could almost be mistaken for a smile. “A whole evening with your crew of misfits? What a treat.”

Nyra shot him a playful glare, holding the shirt up to inspect it. “You’ll survive. Probably.”

Grudge shook his head, muttering to himself as he stubbed out his cigarillo. He picked up his newspaper again, but his gruff exterior couldn’t quite hide the faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

As Nyra hummed to herself, fussing over her “nice” shirt and the coins she’d worked so hard to save, Grudge sat back in his chair, the cigarillo smoke dissipating around him. 

---

The Last Drop was alive with its usual hum of chaos—chairs scraping against the floor, tankards slamming onto wooden tables, and laughter bouncing off the walls. The dim light from the oil lamps gave the place a smoky haze, a mix of warmth and grime that made it feel both comforting and dangerous.

Nyra stepped through the door, a spring in her step, her "nice" shirt pressed neatly under her patched jacket. Beside her, Grudge followed with the kind of heavy reluctance that could sink a ship. His long black coat brushed the dusty floor as he adjusted the frayed bowler hat perched on his head. A thin trail of smoke curled from the cigarillo clamped between his lips, his sharp eyes scanning the room with practiced wariness.

They drew a few glances—not because Nyra was a stranger here, but because her companion looked like he belonged in a shady corner dealing in secrets, not sitting down for a casual drink. Grudge sighed and adjusted his coat, tugging the lapels as if they could shield him from the noise and chaos around him.

Nyra picked a table near the middle of the room and dropped into a chair, gesturing for Grudge to sit across from her. He obeyed, easing himself into the seat with a creak and a faint groan, as though even sitting down was an inconvenience.

“What’ll it be?” Nyra signed, a sly smile tugging at her lips.

Grudge waved her off, exhaling a puff of smoke. “I’ll think about it.”

Before Nyra could respond, a loud chorus of greetings erupted from behind her.

“Echo!”

She barely had time to turn before Ekko and Powder launched themselves at her. Powder wrapped her arms around Nyra’s waist, nearly toppling her from her chair, while Ekko gave her a hearty hug from the side.

Mylo sauntered over next, giving Nyra a smirk and holding out his fist. She bumped it with a grin. “Finally made it out of your dingy house, huh?”

Claggor followed with his usual good-natured grin, patting Nyra on the back hard enough to make her rock forward. “Good to see you here.”

Then there was Vi, standing a little further back with her arms crossed. She gave Nyra a single nod, her expression one of grumpy approval. “About time,” she muttered.

Nyra rolled her eyes fondly. “Miss me that much?”

Grudge watched the scene unfold with an expression hovering between amusement and discomfort. He adjusted his hat again, tugging it low, as his sharp eyes darted around the room. This place wasn’t his—too loud, too young, too full of energy. He sighed and looked around, his gaze softening briefly as he took in the chatter, the clink of glasses, and the camaraderie.

“Who’s the stiff?” Mylo asked loudly, jerking his thumb toward Grudge.

Nyra gave him a warning look and signed, “This is Grudge. He’s…” She paused, glancing at the man who was currently pretending not to hear their chatter. “The man I live with.”

Grudge gave the group a cold nod, his face as unreadable as stone.

“Charming,” Mylo muttered under his breath, earning a nudge from Vi.

Nyra quickly added, “I’m here to treat him to a drink, so don’t bother him.”

The kids exchanged looks but backed off, giving Nyra and Grudge their space. Just as they dispersed, the door to the back creaked open, and Vander emerged from the shadows, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Vander!” Powder squealed, darting toward him with Ekko hot on her heels.

Vander chuckled, crouching down to catch Powder in a hug before ruffling Ekko’s hair. “Alright, alright. What do you two want this time?”

“Juice!” Powder chimed, practically bouncing.

“Coming right up.” Vander moved behind the bar, pouring the drinks with practiced ease. As he leaned against the counter, his eyes scanned the room, and he froze when they landed on the table where Nyra and Grudge sat.

For a moment, Vander looked like he’d seen a ghost. His smile faltered, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at Grudge.

Grudge, who was lighting another cigarillo, finally glanced up. His expression shifted—just a flicker—but it was enough for Nyra to notice. His hand hesitated mid-motion, the matchstick burning dangerously close to his fingers.

Vander seemed to shake himself, squaring his shoulders. He quickly poured a drink—a deep amber liquid in a sturdy glass—and strode toward them with a broad but awkward smile plastered on his face.

“Lil' Echo.” Vander greeted her first, setting a small cup of juice in front of her.

Nyra tilted her head, her curiosity piqued as she signed, “Thanks, Vander. What’s with the drink?”

Vander didn’t answer. His attention had shifted entirely to Grudge, who was staring at him like the apparition of a bad memory.

“...Grudge,” Vander said, his voice warm but tinged with something guarded. He set the glass of amber liquid in front of him. “Your usual.”

Grudge didn’t move. He just stared at Vander, his face unreadable, though his knuckles whitened where they rested on the table.

“How’ve you been?” Vander asked, his tone light but his eyes cautious.

Grudge still didn’t answer. His cigarillo smoldered between his fingers, forgotten.

The silence stretched uncomfortably, until Vander finally sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Look… if you want, we can talk. In private.”

Nyra blinked, her gaze darting between the two men. She signed, “What’s going on?”

Neither of them answered. Grudge’s jaw tightened, and Vander’s expression softened into something almost pained.

The tension hung in the air like a fraying thread, ready to snap. Nyra’s gaze darted between Grudge and Vander, her fingers twitching idly against the untouched cup of juice in front of her. Grudge finally moved, so subtly that it took a second for her to register it. He inclined his head—a nod so small it could have been mistaken for a tic—and stood up with deliberate care.

“Stay put,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly.

Nyra watched in confusion as Grudge straightened his coat and followed Vander, their steps eerily soundless, into the back room. The heavy door swung shut behind them with a muted thud, leaving her alone at the table.

Her mind buzzed with unanswered questions. What was that about? Why had Grudge—normally so unfazed by everything—looked like he’d just been cornered by an old demon? 

Before she could puzzle it out, the kids descended on her.

Ekko slid into the seat beside her, eyebrows raised. “Uh… what was that?”

Powder perched on the edge of the table, her wide eyes brimming with curiosity. “Are they fighting? Is the Grudge guy mad at Vander? Did Vander steal something?”

“Maybe they’re planning a heist!” Claggor offered with a grin, pulling up a chair.

“Or maybe Vander’s just finally telling him his drinks suck,” Mylo quipped as he leaned casually against the table, arms crossed.

A sharp smack echoed as Vi cuffed Mylo on the back of the head.

“Show some respect,” she snapped, though her eyes were trained on Nyra, narrowed with suspicion. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

Nyra shook her head, her fingers forming quick, terse signs. “I have no idea. Vander barely said a word, and Grudge looked…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Spooked.”

“That guy?” Mylo scoffed, rubbing the back of his head where Vi had struck him. “Spooked? Please. He probably eats ghosts for breakfast.”

“Maybe he’s haunted,” Powder whispered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “What if Vander’s the ghost?”

Ekko snorted, though he leaned closer to Nyra. “Seriously, though. What do you think they’re talking about? It’s weird seeing Vander like that.”

Nyra took a long breath, trying to ignore the knot in her stomach. She looked toward the closed door of the back room, but it offered no answers. “Whatever it is, it’s old history,” she signed at last, her expression tight. “Something they clearly don’t want me to know about.”

Vi crossed her arms and huffed, leaning back against the table. “Well, that’s just great. First Vander acts like he’s seen a ghost, and now your old man is acting like one.”

Nyra shrugged, her fingers moving slower now. “Guess we’ll have to wait. They’ll come out eventually.”

“Or not,” Mylo muttered, earning a glare from both Vi and Nyra.

---

Chapter Text

The alleyway was alive with the lazy buzz of kids halfheartedly scavenging through piles of rusted junk and discarded scraps. The Undercity's neon lights cast slanted rays that turned broken bottles into glittering jewels and weathered metal into otherworldly gold. Mylo was play-boxing with a makeshift mannequin cobbled together from old gears and a battered torso frame. He jabbed and ducked, putting on a show for no one in particular, until he stopped mid-swing, panting dramatically.

“This is boring,” he declared, slumping onto an overturned crate. “Who even cares about this junk? It’s not like Benzo pays us enough to make it worth breaking a sweat.”

Claggor, leaning against a wall with arms crossed, snorted. “Alright, big thinker. Got any better ideas?”

Mylo perked up, brushing a few sweaty baby hairs aside. “We could—”

“No,” Claggor interrupted preemptively, smirking slightly.

Mylo scowled, but before he could retort, Claggor straightened up and suggested, “Why don’t we get something to eat?”

A few of them nodded halfheartedly, while others shrugged. Claggor shrugged right back, gesturing to the group. “Alright, no objections? Guess I solved boredom for today.”

Powder, seated cross-legged on the cobblestones, piped up. “We could go to the pond! It’s warm out!”

Mylo, ever the self-appointed critic, laughed and dramatically threw a hand over his heart. “Oh, Blue. Sweet, naive Blue. You think our pond hasn’t been swarmed by Piltie brats by now?” He mimed a fancy enforcer voice. “‘Oh, excuse me, filthy Undercity children, could you vacate the premises while I sip my imported lemonade?’”

Powder’s face fell, and she hugged her knees, muttering, “It was just an idea.”

“Don’t be a jerk,” Vi interjected, flicking a pebble at Mylo’s head.

He flinched, then raised his hands defensively. “Fine! Geez.”

Vi sighed, kicking a rock as she paced. “I’m tired of all this scavenging like rats. There’s gotta be something bigger out there. Something that actually matters.” She turned to Nyra, who was fiddling with a small gear in her lap, and sent her a pointed look.

Nyra paused, meeting Vi’s gaze, and raised her eyebrows in silent outrage. Her hands stilled, and she set the gear aside deliberately, arching an unimpressed brow in response.

Vi threw her hands up. “What? Don’t give me that look. You know I'm right.”

Ekko, seated on a broken barrel nearby, fidgeted. He cleared his throat, nervously glancing between the group. “Uh… I might… have an idea?”

Everyone’s attention turned to him like moths to a flame.

“Well, spit it out, Little Man,” Mylo said, leaning forward.

Ekko gulped and quickly explained, “Okay, so this rich guy came into Benzo’s shop the other day, right? Real fancy, like he’d never stepped foot down here before. He bought a bunch of junk at crazy prices—like, crazy crazy—and didn’t even haggle.”

“And?” Vi prompted, folding her arms.

Ekko hesitated before continuing. “So… I might’ve followed him back to where he lives.”

There was a moment of silence as this sank in.

“…And?” Vi repeated, leaning forward.

“It’s this massive house in Piltover. And, uh, he’s definitely as rich as he looks.”

A collective hush fell over the group.

Claggor scratched his chin. “I dunno, that sounds risky.”

“Risky? Sounds brilliant to me,” Mylo cut in, puffing his chest. “For, you know, experienced folks. Not someone who might slip on thin air and fall on her ass.” He shot a pointed look at Powder, who glared back and stuck out her tongue.

Vi ignored the bickering, rubbing her jaw thoughtfully. “Alright. I like it. Roof routes should keep us out of sight, and we’ll plan carefully. If we pull this off…”

Nyra’s hands moved sharply, catching their attention as she signed, "This is a bad idea."

“Not now, Echo,” Mylo dismissed with a wave.

Her lips pressed into a firm line, and she picked up a small screw, launching it at Mylo’s head. He yelped, glaring at her. “What was that for?”

She signed again, slower this time, "This is a bad idea. Topsiders are paranoid. If we get caught, we’ll pay for it."

Vi scoffed, throwing her hand up dismissively. “Fine. If you’re that scared, you can sit this one out.”

Nyra’s expression turned icy, and her hands flew. "When this goes wrong, I’m saying ‘I told you so.’ Multiple times."

She stood abruptly, motioning for Powder and Ekko to follow her.

Powder hesitated, looking between the group and Nyra. “But… I wanna come.”

“You?” Mylo said, incredulous. “You’d just—”

Vi’s hand snapped to the back of Mylo’s head before he could finish. “Cut it out,” she ordered, glaring at him.

Turning to Powder, Vi crouched down, her expression softening. She tucked a loose strand of blue hair behind Powder’s ear. “You’re ready. And you’re coming.”

Powder’s face lit up, and she threw her arms around Vi’s neck, grinning ear to ear. Nyra, watching from the corner of her eye, let out an exaggerated, silent sigh but smiled faintly despite herself.

As the group turned back to planning, Nyra folded her arms, already thinking of her inevitable I told you so.
---

The waning sunlight, trying to penetrate the Undercity's smog, cast a soft glow over the hideout as the kids bustled about, preparing for their heist. Claggor double-checked their makeshift equipment, Vi paced impatiently by the door, and Mylo spun a crowbar in his hand, grinning smugly as if he already knew he’d be the star of the operation. Powder sat cross-legged on the floor, nervously fiddling with her boots as Nyra crouched in front of her, furrowing her brows like a disapproving nanny.

Nyra’s hands darted toward Powder’s laces, retying them with precision, tugging at the loops like a seamstress perfecting her craft. Powder groaned, squirming slightly. “Echo, it’s fine! They’re just shoes. I’m not gonna trip!”

Nyra’s hands stilled, and she shot Powder a mockingly skeptical look. With exaggerated flair, she signed, "Oh, you’re not? Because I seem to recall a certain someone eating dirt during sparring last week."

Powder pouted. “That was one time!”

Nyra rolled her eyes dramatically and waved her off, standing and brushing imaginary dust from her hands. "Shoelaces secured. The world is safe again", she signed with a flourish, giving Powder a teasing smirk.

Vi leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, and tapped her foot impatiently. “Done playing mom yet, Mouse? Or should I go get her a helmet too?”

Nyra pivoted to face Vi, squinting playfully. She tapped her chin thoughtfully before signing, "I could get you one too. Wouldn’t want you hurting that rock you call a brain."

Vi snorted, rolling her eyes, and turned toward the others. “Alright, idiots, enough. We’re burning daylight.”

Nyra stepped back, crossing her arms and giving them a pointed look. Then, her expression softened, and she signed, "Be safe."

Powder nodded earnestly, grinning up at Nyra. “We will! Promise!”

Mylo, leaning against a pile of crates, smirked. “Wow, so the good vibes are only for the sisters, huh? What about the rest of us unworthy peasants?”

Nyra turned to him, unimpressed, and plucked a pen from the workbench. With deliberate precision, she hurled it at his head. Mylo ducked just in time, laughing. “Alright, alright, I get it!”

With a dramatic sigh, Nyra moved closer and wrapped both Mylo and Claggor in a brief but tight hug. Claggor chuckled, patting her back gently. Mylo tried to act nonchalant, but his ears turned red as he muttered, “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Stepping back, Nyra signed, "Take care of each other. I can't convince you not to go, so that's the least you can do for me."

Vi, now standing by the door with her arms crossed, gave Nyra a snarky smirk and tipped her fingers in a lazy two-fingered salute. “We’ll see you after we’re rich, scared little Mouse.”

Nyra rolled her eyes but waved them off, standing beside Ekko as they watched the group disappear into the growing shadows of the alleyway. She exhaled silently and turned to Ekko, who gave her a small, nervous smile.

“Now,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “what’s our excuse for Vander and Benzo if they catch us hanging around doing nothing?”

Nyra smirked, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "You’re the fast talker," she signed. "I’m just here to throw things."

Ekko laughed nervously. “Great. No pressure or anything.”

---

The laboratory was dim, its walls slick with moisture from the underground waterbed it bordered. The room was cavernous, with a faint greenish glow emanating from a massive glass window at the far end, framing the murky waters of the Undercity. Outside, a colossal fish glided past, its shadowy form momentarily obscuring the faint light filtering in. The sound of slow, rhythmic drips echoed, breaking the oppressive silence.

Three figures were present. The first, a hulking man with a heavy gait, leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, his face shadowed. His brooding presence filled the room like a storm cloud, and the faint sound of his finger flicking a silver lighter rang out every few seconds. The second was wiry, his posture sharp and commanding despite his slender frame. He stood near the window, his mismatched eyes glinting as he observed the great creature beyond. The third figure, hunched over a cluttered workstation, worked in eerie silence. Glass vials glinted in the low light, and the soft clink of metal tools punctuated his deliberate, meticulous movements.

The scientist straightened, holding a syringe filled with a vivid, pinkish liquid. He approached a small cage on the table, where a lone, white mouse twitched nervously. With practiced precision, he injected the serum into the mouse’s scruff. The creature froze for a moment, then began to spasm violently. Its eyes glowed faintly before it let out a shrill squeak, clawing frantically at its enclosure. It grew twice in size, its nails elongating, big purple blobs of flesh growing all over its small body. Its behavior became more erratic, aggressive, until, within moments, it collapsed and lay still.

The hulking man and the scientist watched without a trace of emotion.

The brooding man broke the silence. “How long until it works on people?” His voice was low and gravelly, impatient.

The scientist didn’t look up, his sharp features bathed in the eerie glow of his concoctions. “The proof of concept is complete,” he said, his tone clinical. “I need only a day to refine the formula. A slight adjustment to the stability... and it will be ready for human trials.”

The wiry man turned from the window, clasping his hands behind his back. His movements were deliberate, measured. “Good,” he said softly, his voice smooth, with an edge sharp enough to cut. “The time is upon us. All we need now is an opening.”

The brooding man flicked his lighter shut, extinguishing the low flame. “I’ve heard that before,” he muttered darkly.

The wiry man turned his mismatched eyes on him, unperturbed by the challenge in his tone. “And yet you remain,” he said smoothly, his voice laced with quiet authority.

The brooding man didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stared at the dead mouse on the table, his expression unreadable. Finally, he pushed off the wall and stepped toward the door. “One day,” he rumbled, glancing back at the scientist. “It better be worth it.”

The scientist didn’t look up, already returning to his work. “It will.”

As the brooding man left the lab, the wiry leader turned back to the window, his gaze returning to the great fish beyond. His lips curled into the barest hint of a smile. “One day,” he murmured, as though to himself, “and then the sons and daughters of Zaun will finally have what is rightfully theirs.”
---

Benzo’s shop smelled faintly of old wood, rusted metal, and the faint tang of oil. On the second floor, amid a clutter of gears, tools, and half-finished gadgets, Nyra sat cross-legged on the floor beside Ekko, tinkering with one of his latest inventions. The room was lit by a single lantern hanging from a beam, its warm glow pooling over their workspace.

Ekko was focused, his small fingers adjusting the delicate components of a prototype bomb meant to incapacitate rather than harm. His eyes darted between the gadget and his scattered notes and scribbles, occasionally muttering under his breath as he made adjustments. Nyra, however, was far less composed.

Her fingers tapped against the floor, her bitten nails evident from her nervous habit. She fumbled with a screwdriver, setting it down in one spot, only to forget where and search for it moments later. At one point, she reached for a glass of water perched on a crate, misjudged the distance, and sent it clattering to the floor.

Ekko’s head snapped up, startled. He caught her gaze as she hastily grabbed a rag to clean the mess. His brows furrowed. “Nyra,” he said softly, tilting his head, “what’s going on? You’re... all over the place today.”

Nyra froze mid-motion, the rag in her hand. Her face twisted with a mix of guilt and worry. She set the rag aside, sighing silently, and then lifted her hands to respond. “I just have a bad feeling,” she signed, her movements sharp and quick. “About the heist. Topside is too dangerous. It’s too big of a job.”

Ekko’s hands paused over his work. He chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, then set the prototype down gently. “You’re not the only one,” he admitted, leaning back against the wall. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. I feel... bad, you know? For giving them the tip. What if something goes wrong?”

Nyra’s expression softened, and she immediately waved her hands to catch his attention. “No,” she signed firmly, leaning forward. “Don’t feel bad. It’s just me overthinking. They’re capable—they’ve done plenty of risky things before, and they’ve always pulled through.”

Ekko gave her a skeptical look, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah, but this? This isn’t just swiping junk from some half-drunk guy in the lanes. This is Piltover.”

Nyra reached out, pulling him into a tight hug. He stiffened for a moment but then sighed, relaxing into her embrace. She pulled back and smiled, though her own worry still lingered behind her eyes. “They’ll be fine,” she signed, more to herself than to him. “We’ve just got to believe in them.”

Ekko nodded reluctantly, his fingers brushing against the prototype as he returned to his work. “Yeah. Guess we better finish these, just in case they need some extra backup one day.”

Nyra gave a short, silent laugh, bumping her shoulder against his before reaching for a loose screw. Despite her reassurances to him, her stomach churned with unease. 

---

The undercity rooftops were a patchy mess of rusted tin, crooked tiles, and scavenged planks—all slapped together in defiance of gravity and good sense. Laundry lines swayed overhead, tangling with pipes that spat steam into the air like they were annoyed to be stuck there. It was home, sure, but the kind that made you roll your eyes and mutter, only in the Lanes, every time something creaked underfoot.

Vi leapt over a gap like it was nothing, landing with a confident thud on the next rooftop. Behind her, Mylo stumbled over a loose plank, his arms pinwheeling as he tried not to eat dirt. “Seriously,” he huffed, pausing to glare at the wobbly board, “do we have to pick the most death-trappy route?”

“Quit whining, Mylo,” Vi called over her shoulder, already sizing up the next jump. “You’d complain about a straight bridge.”

“Yeah, ‘cause those are safe,” he shot back, muttering something under his breath about reckless idiots.

Powder clung to Claggor’s arm as they climbed higher, her small frame dwarfed by his bulk. She hesitated at every gap, but Claggor was a pro at giving her just the right shove when she needed it.

Finally, they hauled themselves onto the highest rooftop before the bridge bordering Piltover, panting and sweating. Vi yanked Powder up last, ruffling her blue hair affectionately before standing to take in the view. The transition from the Undercity to Piltover was like flipping a coin—grimy, patched-up chaos below, and gleaming perfection above. The topside skyline shimmered like a dream, all polished spires and clean lines.

“This is it,” Vi said, her voice quieter now. She jerked her chin toward the golden glow ahead. “Next stop: Piltover.”

For once, no one had a snarky comeback. They all stared, the weight of what they were about to do settling in. Well, for about five seconds.

“Let’s move,” Vi ordered, and just like that, they were slipping through Piltover’s lower streets like shadows. The air here was crisper, less oppressive, and the streets were busy with well-dressed topsiders. They didn’t notice the four scrappy kids weaving through their alleys. Good.

When they found their target—a vine-covered stone building—Vi gave an approving nod. “Perfect,” she said. “Easy climb.”

It wasn’t, of course. The vines were slick, and Mylo grumbled the whole way up, but Vi ignored him. She reached the rooftop first and hoisted Powder up behind her.

Powder gasped, her eyes going wide as she took in the view. Piltover spread out like a shiny puzzle, all neat streets and bustling order. A massive blimp floated overhead, casting a slow-moving shadow across the rooftops.

“One day,” Powder said, her voice filled with awe, “I’m gonna ride one of those.”

Mylo, of course, couldn’t resist ruining the moment. “And one day,” he said with a cocky grin, making finger guns, “I’m gonna shoot one of them down.”

Vi snorted. “Sure, Mylo. Real noble aspirations. Can’t wait to see the statue they build in your honor.” She rolled her eyes and walked to the roof’s edge, the wind tugging at her half-buzzed hair.

“Here we go,” she muttered, scanning the alley below before setting her sights on the next building. The terrace wasn’t far—just a jump. Easy. “Don’t look down,” she called, swinging her legs over the edge. “And don’t screw up.”

She jumped, her landing so smooth it almost looked rehearsed. Climbing onto the terrace railing, she bent her knees and leapt again, clearing the gap to the next rooftop without missing a beat. She turned back to the group, arms crossed, her smirk loud enough to be heard. “See? Easy.”

“Show-off,” Mylo muttered, lowering himself over the edge. He made the jump with a little too much flare, landing clumsily and throwing his arms up like he’d stuck the landing in a gymnastics routine. “Told you—easier.”

Claggor came next, his landing punctuated by a grunt and the crinkle of his bag. He was holding a cupcake, shoving it in his mouth in one go. He licked his fingers, crumbs tumbling down his shirt.

Then it was Powder’s turn. She froze on the edge, her toes just barely hanging over. Her hands curled into fists, her knuckles turning white as she watched the steep drop below. “I—I don’t know about this—”

“Oh, I called it,” Mylo said, folding his arms. “Knew she’d chicken out.”

Vi whipped her head around to glare at him. “Shut it, Mylo.” She crouched, her voice going softer. “Powder, look at me. Don’t look down—just me, okay?”

Powder’s trembling eyes met Vi’s. “What if I fall?”

“You won’t. What did I tell you?”

Powder swallowed hard. “That I’m ready.”

“That’s right. And you are. You’ve got this. One step at a time.”

Powder took a shaky breath and climbed onto the railing. Her legs wobbled dangerously as she teetered on the edge. She shut her eyes tight and pushed off, arms flailing as she soared across the gap. She hit the rooftop hard, her knees buckling.

Vi lunged forward and grabbed her just as she tipped toward the edge, pulling her to safety. Powder clung to her, panting.

“I did it,” Powder whispered, her voice shaky but proud.

Vi smiled, ruffling her hair. “Yeah, you did.”

They moved on, the tension giving way to quick, purposeful steps. The rooftop seemed to stretch endlessly, the next jump always harder than the last. Finally, Claggor broke the silence. “What if Vander finds out?” he asked, his voice tinged with worry.

Vi shrugged. “That’s why Echo and Ekko stayed behind—to keep him off our scent.” She waved a hand at the glimmering city below. “Besides, look around. No one topside's going hungry. Vander would’ve done the same thing when he was our age.”

Claggor groaned. “Vander's gonna kill us.”

“Only if we screw up,” Vi said with a serious face. “So don’t screw up.”

At last, they reached their target: a wide balcony. Vi was the first over the railing, landing silently. She scanned the area, then motioned the others to follow.

Mylo dropped in next, dusting off his hands. “Easy.”

Claggor followed, helping Powder down. Mylo tried the door, jiggling the handle. “It’s locked,” he muttered. “Who locks their balcony?”

He crouched, pulling out his lock-picking tools. “I’ve got this,” he said, confidence dripping from his voice. “Just give me a sec.”

Vi tapped her foot impatiently. “You gonna get that open sometime this century?”

“I’m working on it,” Mylo snapped. “Seeing as I’m the only one who knows how to—”

CRACK! Vi kicked the door in with a single motion, stepping inside. Mylo froze, his mouth hanging open.

Claggor walked past him, sparing him a glance.

Powder followed, throwing Mylo a cheeky grin.

“Animals,” Mylo muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he finally stepped inside.

---

Chapter Text

The tension hung heavy in the air as the group trudged through the maze of the Undercity's narrow alleys. Nyra led the pack, her posture a cocktail of irritation and stubbornness. Hood up, arms crossed so tight she might snap in two, she stormed ahead, every stomp of her boots broadcasting her fury. Behind her, the others exchanged uneasy glances, like kids trailing behind a storm cloud, waiting for it to crack open.

The silence shattered as they rounded a corner and came face to face with a group of lounging street kids. Perched on a crate like some scruffy king on a throne was Deckard, his blond hair slicked back in an attempt at cool that didn’t quite land. He flipped a pocket knife lazily between his fingers, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Good haul today?” Deckard’s voice was sharp, a crow’s caw in the quiet. His eyes gleamed with that particular kind of mischief that meant trouble.

Mylo, proving once again that his brain-to-mouth filter was perpetually malfunctioning, piped up. “You could say that.”

Nyra stopped in her tracks, closed her eyes, and inhaled through her nose as if summoning all her willpower not to throttle him. She turned her head just enough to glare daggers at Mylo, but it was too late.

Deckard rose to his feet with a slow, deliberate grace, the crate creaking as it was freed of his weight. “You could say that, huh?” He began circling them, his boots crunching against the loose gravel of the alley. “And here you are, dragging that decent haul through my streets.” He flicked the knife open with a practiced motion, the blade catching a sliver of light.

Vi snorted in indignation, her arms crossing as she squared her shoulders. “Your streets?” She tilted her head, her voice dripping with defiance. “You don’t own these streets.”

Deckard’s smirk widened as he stopped in front of her. “You won’t have a problem, sweetheart. Just leave a little taste of that haul behind.”

Vi leaned forward slightly, the movement deliberate, an innocent look gracing her features. She unhooked the heavy bag of loot slung over her shoulder. “Just a taste?”

“Just a—” Deckard never finished the sentence.

With a fluid motion, Vi swung the bag straight into his smug face. It landed with a whomp that echoed through the alley, and Deckard stumbled back, clutching his nose as blood started trickling down.

And just like that, the alley exploded.

Deckard roared in fury, throwing a wild punch that caught Vi square in the cheek. She staggered but grinned, her teeth red with blood, and lunged back with a ferocity that sent Deckard skidding into a pile of trash. “Blue, take the bag! Run!” she shouted as she hurled the loot toward her little sister.

Powder caught it with a startled yelp, hugging the bag to her chest like it was her only lifeline. But she didn’t run. She stood there, trembling against the wall, her wide eyes darting around the chaos.

Claggor was fending off two kids at once, his burly arms swinging like wrecking balls as he blocked blow after blow. Mylo, on the other hand, was locked in a flailing brawl with another boy, their movements more like an awkward slapfight than anything remotely threatening.

Nyra hesitated, scanning the mess for her opening. But then her heart seized as she spotted one of Deckard’s crew darting toward Powder, who hadn’t moved an inch. Nyra’s hands flew up, signing frantically for her to run, her movements sharp and desperate. Powder didn’t budge, clutching the bag tighter.

Before Nyra could sprint to her, a wiry kid broke away from Claggor’s fight and barreled toward her. Nyra spun just in time to duck a swing, her hood falling back to reveal her hair whipping in the motion. She wasn’t a fighter—not like Vi or Claggor. Her movements were defensive, dodging punches and sidestepping kicks with agility but no counterattacks.

The boy lunged again, and she twisted to avoid his fist, her heel slipping on the gravel. She caught herself against the alley wall, her hands braced for the next blow. She couldn’t land a punch to save her life, but she could keep herself upright.

Her eyes darted back to Powder, just in time to see the little girl bolt, her hair clips glinting in the alley light. The kid chasing her took off, leaving Nyra’s heart pounding as she grappled with the attacker in front of her. She lashed out with a shove, forcing him back just enough to get space, her mind screaming at her to find Powder, to help.

A silent yell escaped her lips as she tried to push through, but the fight swirled around her like a storm, trapping her in its chaos.

Claggor, panting heavily but still steady as a boulder, finally broke free of his brawl, delivering a forceful shove that sent his last attacker sprawling into a pile of garbage. Without missing a beat, he turned to Nyra, who was still grappling with her own opponent. He stormed toward her, grabbed the wiry kid by the back of his shirt, and tossed him aside like a sack of scrap.

"Go after Blue!" he barked, his voice sharp and laced with urgency.

Nyra didn’t even stop to nod. The moment she was free, she took off, her boots hammering against the uneven ground as she sprinted out of the alley. Her mind raced alongside her pounding heart, her eyes darting everywhere, scanning for any sign of Powder—or the boy chasing her.

The streets blurred around her as she ran, the shouts and scuffles of the fight fading into a distant roar. Then, her gaze caught it—a trail of toppled crates, scattered across the ground like breadcrumbs. Nyra veered to the right, following the path until she reached a landing above the murky waters that bordered Piltover and the Undercity.

There, silhouetted against the bright glow of industrial lights reflecting on the water, she saw them. Powder was backed against the wooden railing, clutching the loot bag with both hands. The boy who’d chased her loomed closer, his grin predatory as he advanced. Powder’s shoulders were shaking, her eyes darting everywhere to find escape.

Nyra froze for a split second, her breath catching in her throat. Then Powder’s wide eyes met hers, and something shifted. Without hesitation, Powder hoisted the bag over the railing and hurled it into the water below. It hit the surface with a resounding splash, sinking fast beneath the oily waves.

The boy let out a frustrated noise, but before he could react, Powder darted past him, bolting straight toward Nyra. Nyra wasted no time. She reached out, grabbing Powder’s hand as the little girl barreled into her.

“Let’s go!” Nyra’s hands signed furiously, though her movements were lost on Powder, who was already sprinting alongside her.

The boy spun around, his anger erupting into a snarl. Nyra quickly scooped up a loose rock from the ground and hurled it with all her strength. The makeshift missile smacked against his shoulder with a satisfying thud, buying her just enough time to bolt.

Hand in hand, Nyra and Powder ran, their breaths ragged, their feet pounding against the wooden planks of the landing. The sound of their pursuer’s footsteps echoed behind them, but Nyra refused to look back. All that mattered was putting as much distance as possible between them and the boy.

---

Nyra and Powder burst onto the scene, their ragged breaths announcing their return to the group before their feet fully stopped. Mylo, bruised but grinning, was nursing a swollen lip. Claggor leaned against a wall, arms crossed, keeping a wary eye on the street. Vi stood a few paces ahead of Deckard, her back turned, as if she had already dismissed him. The sharp clang of a blade being drawn, however, snapped everyone's focus back.

"Wait!" Deckard bellowed, brandishing his pocket knife like it was Runeterra's finest blade.

Vi paused mid-step, her head tilting ever so slightly. Slowly, she turned around, her body language oozing disinterest, as if he wasn’t even worth the effort. She walked right up to him, stopping just shy of the blade's edge, and leaned down until she was eye level with him.

“You wanna see how that ends?” she asked, her voice a calm tone, cold and sharp enough to make even the knife wince.

Deckard's bravado evaporated like steam on a hot pipe. His grip on the knife faltered as he glanced around, his face a mix of fear and shame. With a muttered curse, he spun on his heel and bolted, disappearing into the maze of alleys like a rat fleeing the light.

Nyra, still catching her breath, couldn’t help but stare at Vi in begrudging awe. She gently patted Powder’s shoulder, the younger girl trembling beside her, her wide eyes darting everywhere like a startled bird. Powder flinched but stayed still under Nyra’s comforting touch.

Vi glanced back at them briefly, her sharp gaze softening just a fraction as she noted Powder’s distress. Mylo, always one to ruin a moment, sidled over, dusting off his shirt as he squinted at the two girls.

“So, uh... where’s the bag?” he asked, his tone almost accusatory.

Powder hesitated, looking between Mylo and the ground. “I... I didn’t mean to. I was scared and my Mouser didn't work,” she stammered, her voice small. “So I—I threw it in the water.”

Mylo let out an exasperated groan. “You threw it? In the—? Blue, you gotta learn to throw a punch, not a bag! Seriously, stop being so—”

“Shut up,” Vi cut him off sharply, her tone leaving no room for argument. Mylo’s mouth snapped shut as Vi turned to Powder, pulling up her hood as if shielding herself from the weight of her own words. She crouched slightly, placing a firm but gentle hand on Powder’s shoulder.

“What matters,” Vi said, her voice steady and reassuring, “is that you’re safe. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

Powder nodded hesitantly, her eyes darting between Vi and the ground. Nyra’s hand tightened around hers, a silent reassurance that she wasn’t alone.

Vi straightened, her gaze flicking over the group. “Let’s go,” she said, leading them through the narrow, twisting paths of the Undercity bazaar. The chaos of the market swirled around them—hawkers shouting, vendors bartering, the smell of oil and grime mixing with roasting meat—but they moved as one, a bruised and battered unit.

---

Huck sat hunched at a corner table in the Last Drop, his nervous fingers twitching at the rim of a mug that had long gone cold. His sunken eyes darted between the two hulking figures across from him and the rest of the bar’s patrons. A bead of sweat dripped down his temple, and he wiped it away with the back of a shaky hand.

The man seated across from him was a mountain of a figure, bald as a polished stone and sporting a beard which he seemed to take good care of. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, smirking as though Huck were a cornered mouse. His voice, low and gravelly, dripped with mockery.

“This isn’t what we agreed on, so...” Huck stammered, voice trembling as he gestured at the small pouch of coins on the table.

The hulking man’s smirk widened. “Well, demand for your wares has dropped, friend,” he said, leaning forward just enough for the table to creak under his weight. “This is the new value.”

Huck paled, frustration evident on his face. “We shook on it. Ten thousand. Ten!”

“Such are the risks of business,” the man replied with a shrug, his voice calm. “And ten thousand for trash like yours?” He snorted. “You should take the offer before I change my mind.”

Huck flinched as the hulking man reached for the pouch. His hand jerked toward it, only to freeze as the man’s steely gaze pinned him in place.

“Wait… wait, please,” Huck said, his voice breaking.

The heavy air in the bar was punctuated by the screech of a chair scraping against the floor.

“You folks need anything?”

The bartender, a broad-shouldered man with rough hands and a voice like gravel, approached with a casual stride. Vander was calm, as always, but there was a dangerous edge to his presence that had even the drunkest patrons lowering their voices.

“Leave us,” the hulking man's companion growled, not even sparing Vander a glance.

“You sure about that?” Vander asked, setting a glass on the table with a deliberate clink. “Sounded to me like someone needed help.”

“Piss off,” the woman snapped, her patience clearly thinning.

Vander’s expression didn’t shift, but something dangerous flickered in his eyes. “Bit of advice,” he said evenly, stepping closer. “Don’t threaten the guy who pours the drinks.”

Vander gestured over his shoulder towards the other patrons, and the two people followed his finger to the hundreds of eyes glaring daggers at them, the Last Drop's noise sucked out as if in a vacuum.

The woman scowled, her chair groaning as she shifted to face Vander fully, the noise returning to the bar. “So you’re Vander. Hound of the Underground.”

“And you’re one of those traders who doesn’t honor their word,” Vander replied smoothly, ignoring the comment. He lit up his pipe nonchalantly, not even sparing them a glance. “Guess we’re all disappointed.”

The woman seated beside the hulking man chuckled. Her purple-tinged skin caught the dim light, the butterfly outline on her face giving her an otherworldly look. She sipped her drink lazily, her eyes sharp despite the amused smirk on her lips.

“You got us all wrong, my friend,” the hulking man said, spreading his hands in mock innocence. “We were just… negotiating.”

Vander leaned forward, resting a hand on the table. “Now you're speaking my language. How about this? You give Huck the rest of what you owe him, and I’ll let you walk out of here in one piece.”

The woman leaned back again, arms crossing once more as she considered Vander. The silence stretched, broken only by the clink of glasses and the low hum of conversation in the background.

“Do we, uh…” Vander’s voice was calm, but his eyes were like steel. “Have a deal?”

Vander extended his pipe to the woman, waiting for her to take a drag out of it. She coughed, the strong blend of herbs assaulting her palate. The hulking man’s jaw tensed. With a guttural growl, he reached into his pocket and tossed a heavier pouch onto the table. It landed with a solid thud, and Vander straightened, satisfied.

"This is vile." she coughed out.

“You'll learn to love it. Welcome to the Lanes.” Vander said, his voice smooth as he picked up the pouch and handed it to Huck.

Huck clutched it like a lifeline, his eyes wide with relief. “Th-thank you,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Vander clapped him on the shoulder and turned back to the bar.

Huck, still trembling, muttered a breathless, “I need a drink.”

Vander chuckled and poured him a drink, leaning against the bar top and observing his surroundings calmly.

The bar settled once more, though a few patrons exchanged glances, no doubt recounting the exchange in whispers. At the corner table, the woman seethed quietly, her companion sharing the same facial expression as her.

---

As the kids pushed through the heavy wooden door of the Last Drop, they immediately tried to adopt the swagger of seasoned rogues. Heads held high despite their bruises, they walked stiffly, trying to mask their limps. Mylo, nursing a forming welt on his cheek, shot a cocky grin at a regular who rolled her eyes in response. Powder clung tightly to Nyra’s hand, her steps uncertain, and Nyra’s sharp gaze swept over the room like a hawk surveying for danger.

At the bar, Vander leaned on his elbows, wiping a glass with a practiced ease that belied the sharpness in his gaze as it zeroed in on them. His thick arms flexed as he set the glass down and folded them across his chest. The quiet hum of the bar didn’t falter, but the kids could feel his attention like a weight.

“Everyone all right?” Vander’s voice cut through the din, casual, too casual.

“Never better,” Mylo quipped, earning himself a silent glare from Nyra.

Vander didn’t move, his sharp eyes flicking over their disheveled state. He followed them down to the children's room in the basement, waiting for them to get comfortable on the couches before he spoke again.

“I don’t suppose,” he began, his tone as heavy as a blacksmith’s hammer, “you can explain what it is I’m hearing about an explosion and a foot chase topside?” His gaze swept over them, stopping on Vi, who had taken her usual place at the front of the group. “Four kids fleeing the scene?”

Vi squared her shoulders and met his eyes, defiance sparking in her voice. “We can handle a real job.”

“A real job?” Vander straightened up, his massive frame towering over the group. His voice was deceptively calm, like the eye of a storm. “You blew up a building.”

“That wasn’t—” Vi started, but Vander wasn’t having it.

“Did you even stop to think about what could’ve happened to you? Eh? To them?” He jabbed a finger toward the rest of the group. Powder flinched, her grip on Nyra’s hand tightening, while Nyra’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Vi took a deep breath. “We got our own tip, planned a route. Nobody even saw us.”

“Nobody?” Vander repeated, his voice low and cutting. “You blew up a building.”

Vander glanced around the group, waiting for more information. His eyes landed on Powder, who shied away from his gaze, finally squeaking out “We heard it at Benzo’s shop!” 

That earned her a nasty glare from Mylo, which in turn earned him an even nastier glare from Nyra.

Vander’s brow furrowed deeper. “From?”

“Little Man,” she admitted, almost whispering the name.

Vander groaned, rubbing a hand down his face as if the weight of the world had been dumped on his shoulders. He let the silence hang, heavy and suffocating.

Vi stepped forward, her voice hard. “I took us there. If you wanna be mad, be mad at me. But you’re the one who always says we have to earn our place in this world.”

“And I also told you, time and time again, that the Topside is off-limits.” Vander’s voice rose now, a rumble that made the toys and gadgets scattered around the room tremble. “We stay out of Piltover’s business.”

“Why?” Vi demanded, her temper flaring as she threw her hands out. “They’ve got plenty, while we’re down here scraping together coins!”

The room was silent as Vander’s eyes bore into hers.

Vi's voice grew, her words heavy enough to sink a ship.

“When did you get so comfortable living in someone else’s shadow?”

The tension was unbearable, the air thick with unspoken words and boiling emotions.

Vander took a deep breath, shaking his head slowly. “Everyone out.”

The command was simple, final, and impossible to argue with. The kids filed out reluctantly, with Powder sparing a sad glance at her sister, Nyra, for the first time in a long time, touching Vi's shoulder in reassurance, and Mylo and Claggor following shortly after that.

---

The hallway outside the room was alive with hushed whispers and nervous shuffling. Mylo, self-appointed mastermind of eavesdropping, had a rusty metal funnel jammed against the door. He leaned into it with all the subtlety of a squawking pigeon.

“Shh, I’m getting something!” he whispered, which was Mylo-speak for I’ve heard absolutely nothing yet but I’m committed to the bit.

Nyra crept up behind him, her eyebrows raised in judgment. She signed, "You’re embarrassing all of us, you nosy asshole."

When he didn’t respond—because of course he didn’t—she jabbed him in the ribs. Hard.

“Hey!” Mylo hissed, twisting to glare at her. “If you’re not gonna help, at least stop poking me! I’m on a stakeout.” He shooed her away with a flutter of his fingers, as if she was the problem.

Nyra blinked at him, unimpressed. Then, with an exaggerated roll of her eyes that could have sent her flying into the next dimension, she turned to the others.

"I’ll go check on Ekko," she signed quickly, her hands moving with a flourish. "See if Benzo has heard anything from topside."

Claggor adjusted his goggles, his hands fumbling as he looked up. “Wait. Why didn’t you just stay with Ekko? Why come with us if you were just gonna run back?”

Nyra hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek. Her hands moved slower this time, deliberate. "I don’t know. I just… felt like something bad was gonna happen. Had to make sure you were okay."

Claggor’s face softened, and he nodded, his fingers nervously twisting the strap of his goggles. “Thanks. For, y’know… following your gut.”

Nyra offered a small smile, reaching out to pat his hand gently before turning to Powder. The little girl was sitting on the floor, nervously twisting a strand of her hair. Nyra knelt and smoothed a strand of Powder’s hair, planting a soft kiss on her forehead. "I’ll be back soon," she signed, her hands moving slow and steady, making sure Powder understood. Powder nodded, her lips curving into a tiny, nervous smile.

---

Nyra reached Benzo’s shop just as the lantern outside flickered to life, casting a jittery orange glow over the cobblestone street. Ekko was already pacing out front, practically buzzing with restless energy.

“Nyra!” he called out, rushing toward her. His eyes were wide with worry. “Was that explosion you guys? Like, you guys-you guys?”

Nyra gave him a deadpan look, crossing her arms as her hands moved with exaggerated flourishes. "Yes, Ekko, because we love drawing attention to ourselves." She smirked, then softened as she signed, "I will tell you everything later. Are you okay?"

He nodded quickly, though his fidgeting betrayed him. “I’m fine. Just freaked out. Stuff’s heating up topside, and I dunno, I feel like it’s all connected somehow.”

Before Nyra could reassure him, the familiar sound of heavy boots caught her attention. She glanced down the street and stiffened. Vander and Claggor were making their way toward the shop.

Nyra plastered on her best “I totally belong here” smile and stepped forward to greet them, her hands twiddling nervously. Vander stopped a few paces away, his imposing figure casting a long shadow in the fading light. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Fast feet, kid,” he said, his voice warm but teasing. “How’d you beat us here? Trying to figure out what Benzo and I are cooking up?”

Nyra flushed, her hands fluttering as she shrugged dramatically. Ekko, never one to miss an opportunity, grinned and jabbed her in the ribs. “Oooh, Echo's spying on the spies. Scandalous.”

Nyra swatted his hand away, her expression amused. Vander chuckled, shaking his head as he brushed past them and into the shop.

Ekko turned to Claggor as soon as Vander disappeared inside. “So what happened with the explosion? You guys were there, right? What was it? Boom, crash, rubble everywhere?”

Claggor adjusted his goggles, his expression uneasy. “Yeah, we were there when it blew up. But I dunno what happened exactly. Everything just… went to hell out of nowhere.”

Ekko’s eyes widened, and his attention zeroed in on the faint bruise blooming around Claggor’s eye. “Whoa, did you fight someone? Enforcers?” His excitement practically radiated off him.

Claggor sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, just some bums. They weren’t a big deal.”

Ekko puffed out his chest and launched into an over-the-top display of clumsy fighting moves. He threw a wild punch and followed it up with a spinning kick that nearly sent him tumbling. “Bet Pink was all like ‘Bam!’ And you were like ‘Pow!’”

Claggor couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Yeah, something like that. You’ve got the moves, Ekko. Real pitfighter material.”

Their banter was cut short when Nyra stiffened beside them, her gaze fixed on something down the street. Following her line of sight, Ekko and Claggor spotted two figures approaching: a tall, scowling man and a commanding woman with a sharp, confident stride.

“Enforcers,” Claggor muttered, his voice low. He nudged Nyra. “I’ll head back to the Last Drop. Let the others know what’s up.”

Nyra nodded, her hands flying in quick, urgent signs. "Be careful." She touched his arm briefly before slipping toward the side of the shop, motioning for Ekko to follow.

---

Inside, the second floor was dim and dusty, cluttered with tools and spare parts. Nyra crouched near the small window, peeking down as the enforcers entered the shop. Ekko joined her, motioning towards his makeshift spy tube with a triumphant grin.

“Let’s see what the big bad grown-ups are talking about,” he whispered, pressing the tube to his ear.

Nyra rolled her eyes but leaned closer, straining to catch bits of the conversation below.

“Evening, friends,” came Benzo’s casual drawl.

“Some trencher trash attacked one of the Academy buildings,” Marcus growled. “Bet you already knew that.”

Nyra’s hands moved instinctively as she signed to Ekko. "This isn’t good."

Ekko nodded, his face serious for once. He adjusted the spy tube, his earlier playfulness fading as the tension in the room below thickened. Both of them stayed perfectly still, their breaths barely audible, as the enforcers' voices carried through the shop.

“Some trencher trash attacked one of the buildings in the Academy district,” Marcus said, his tone practically dripping with contempt. “But you already knew that.”

Nyra glanced at Ekko, her brows furrowed. Ekko met her gaze, mouthing this is bad before refocusing on the tube.

“We’re looking for the culprits,” Grayson added.

“Got a description?” Vander’s voice was calm, measured.

“Yeah, it’s exactly who you’re picturing in that thick head of yours,” Marcus shot back.

Nyra almost smiled despite the tension. Vander’s dry retort followed immediately: “Mm. You think my head is thick?”

“Uh, just past the average,” Benzo quipped, and Nyra had to bite her lip to keep from giggling. Ekko mimed a rimshot, grinning.

Marcus’s irritation bubbled over. “Listen, you shady son of a—”

Grayson cut him off with a sharp tone. “How about you go for a little walk, Marcus? Cool off a bit.”

Marcus stormed out, huffing, as Nyra and Ekko exchanged amused glances. But the levity was short-lived, replaced by a knot in Nyra’s stomach. Grayson’s voice turned serious.

“You know this crossed a line upstairs."
Vander warily asked, "Was anyone hurt?"

Grayson took off her mask, solemnly answering "A building was blown to bits. What do you think?"

Vander sighed, his usual composure cracking ever so slightly. “Those who did this will be dealt with.”

Nyra winced, her fingers curling into fists. Ekko whispered, “We're in deep trouble.”

“That workshop belonged to the Kirammans,” Grayson continued. “You know what kind of stuff they had in there? Makes this place look like a candy shop.”

Nyra peeked through the lens just in time to see Benzo bristle at the insult, muttering something under his breath. Ekko snorted softly. “Bet Benzo’s really loving this.”

“The Council needs someone to make an example of,” Grayson pressed. “People need to feel safe.”

“Yeah, topside people,” Vander shot back, his voice laced with bitterness.

Nyra felt her breath catch when Grayson’s next words came: “We had a deal, Vander. You keep your people off my streets.”

She turned to Ekko, her eyes wide with shock. Vander had a truce with Piltover’s sheriff? Ekko looked just as horrified, mouthing, What?!

Down below, the tension thickened. Grayson pushed further. “Give me a name. We’ll do things quiet. No one will know you were involved.”

“I can’t do that,” Vander said firmly.

“You don’t seem to grasp how serious this is,” Grayson countered. “If I don’t put someone behind bars tonight, the next time I come down here, I’ll have an army of enforcers with me.”

Nyra froze, her body trembling as the words hit her like a punch to the gut. The memories came flooding back unbidden: the bridge, her mother’s terrified face, the flash of enforcer batons, the sound of screams. Her nails dug into her palms so hard that her knuckles turned white, tiny crescents of blood pooling where they pierced her skin.

Ekko noticed her distress and nudged her gently, his wide-eyed concern clear. But Nyra couldn’t look at him, couldn’t pull herself from the spiral of grief and rage.

Vander’s voice broke through her thoughts. “I’m sorry, Grayson, but I can’t offer up my own people.”

Grayson sighed heavily. “If you change your mind, this will reach me.” There was a rustle of movement, and Nyra glimpsed her handing something—some kind of communication tube—to Vander.

“And only me,” Grayson added.

Moments later, the sound of footsteps receded, followed by the shop door creaking shut. Nyra let out a shaky breath, leaning back against the wall as she tried to steady her trembling hands.

“That was… a lot,” Ekko murmured, his voice unusually subdued.

Nyra nodded, her throat tight. "Too much."

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of what they’d heard settling over them like a heavy fog. Nyra knew she had to tell the others, and fast at that.

---

Nyra and Ekko crept out of Benzo’s shop as quietly as they’d come in, moving like shadows through the familiar maze of the Undercity’s back alleys. Nyra kept her head low, her thoughts still swirling with the weight of what they’d overheard. Vander’s truce, Grayson’s warning, the looming threat of enforcers—it all pressed on her like a storm cloud.

Ekko, ever energetic, was fidgeting with a tube he got from Benzo's to defend himself just in case, twirling it like a baton. “Man, they were serious back there,” he whispered, wide-eyed. “Grayson’s scary, but Marcus? That guy’s straight-up unhinged.”

Nyra shot him a look, her expression saying, Can we not right now?

“Fine, fine,” he muttered, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

As they neared the Last Drop, the familiar hum of the bar’s chatter reached them, muffled but comforting. Nyra paused, glancing up instinctively toward the rooftop. Her heart softened at the sight she found there.

Vi and Powder were perched together on the ledge, silhouetted against the faint green glow of the Lanes' distant lights. Vi was leaning forward, pointing animatedly at something above them. Nyra followed her line of sight and spotted a small, scruffy plush bunny dangling from a tangle of electrical lines.

Powder’s face was alight with curiosity, her amused voice ringing faintly through the air as Vi mimed an over-the-top rescue attempt, pretending to scale an invisible ladder. Powder clapped her hands, smiling gratefully at her sister.

Nyra couldn’t help but smile, a rare warmth spreading through her chest. For a brief moment, all the weight of the day—the explosion, the enforcers, the tense conversations—faded into the background. Vi’s face was full of unguarded affection, and Powder’s joy was so pure, so innocent, that it made Nyra’s heart ache in the best way.

Ekko started to say something, but Nyra pressed a finger to her lips, her smile softening. She motioned for him to go inside, her hands signing firmly: "Not now. Later."

He nodded, his curiosity evident but unspoken as he slipped into the bar.

Nyra lingered a moment longer, watching Vi ruffle Powder’s hair and pretend to shoot the bunny down with a slingshot. Powder grinned widely, with Vi standing up and motioning to Piltover in the distance.

With one last glance, Nyra decided that that was her cue to leave, turning on her heel and entering the Last Drop. There would be time to talk about the enforcers. For now, she wanted to hold onto this fleeting moment of peace, this little slice of happiness amidst the chaos.

---

The room was a hollowed-out cavern beneath the weight of the water above, its greenish light reflecting off damp walls like the restless movement of the sea. The sound of rushing currents outside hummed faintly, a constant reminder of their isolation.

Deckard stumbled in, dragged by two hulking men whose faces were obscured by shadows and grim determination. His feet skidded on the slick floor, his ragged breaths audible as they shoved him into a chair that looked as if it had been gnawed on by something feral. Deckard’s hands gripped the jagged armrests, his fingers curling so tight they trembled.

Across the room, one figure sat draped in darkness, his silhouette unnervingly still. The faint gleam of a single eye pierced the gloom—a sickly color, cold and unfeeling.

"You were supposed to follow them," the man in the corner rasped, his voice low and smooth, like oil spilling into water. "Not interfere."

Deckard flinched. "I—I’m sorry," he stammered, his voice breaking. "They just caught us by surprise."

From the shadows, the figure leaned forward slightly, revealing the sharp lines of his face. The glowing eye fixed on Deckard, unblinking, its eerie light pooling on the floor. "Now his accomplice is asking questions about you," he said, his tone edged with menace.

Deckard squirmed. "I didn’t mean for—"

"That’s not a risk I’m willing to take," the man interrupted, his voice sharp enough to slice through Deckard’s words. The room seemed colder, the watery light dimming as silence pressed down on them.

Another figure was standing off to the side, half-hidden but visibly relaxed, his posture deceptively casual. He hadn’t said a word, but his presence was a heavy weight in the room. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the silver lighter he was holding, the only sign of unease breaking through his otherwise still demeanor.

"The kids," Deckard blurted suddenly, his voice raw with desperation. "It was their fault. The explosion in the upper city."

The gleaming eye narrowed. The man in the shadows paused, his hand halting mid-motion as it rubbed his other eye. "That was them?" His voice sharpened, curiosity mingling with something darker.

Deckard nodded frantically, his throat working as he swallowed. "Yeah. The topsiders are up in arms, looking for ’em."

The man in the corner chuckled softly—a sound devoid of warmth. He leaned back, his expression now one of dangerous delight. "Vander’s in trouble," he murmured, as if savoring the thought. His glee was palpable, filling the room like a noxious gas.

Deckard laughed nervously, but it died in his throat as the glowing eye fixed on him once more.

"The smartest thing you’ve ever said, boy." the man drawled, gesturing lazily. "Get him a meal."

Deckard blinked in confusion. "Wait—really?"

"Yes," came the reply, dry and cold. Then, with a flick of his wrist, "But keep him off the streets."

The goons moved swiftly, grabbing Deckard under the arms and hauling him out as he sputtered protests. The sound of his boots scraping against the floor faded, leaving behind only the faint hum of machinery and the unsettling quiet.

The man who had been silent until now finally spoke, his voice clinical and devoid of emotion. "Our timeline has moved up," he said, adjusting his thin, wire-framed spectacles with the precision of a surgeon.

The figure in the corner leaned forward again, his eye glinting. "It’s almost ready?"

A soft meow broke the silence. A cat padded into the room, its sleek skin shining faintly in the watery light. The man with the spectacles leaned down, stroking it absently. "Almost," he murmured, his voice distant. He scooped up the cat, its purring loud and steady, and walked toward a small glass cage.

"Show me," the man in the corner commanded, his tone carrying the weight of authority.

The spectacled man placed the cat gently into the cage. Inside, a plump mouse sniffed nervously at a dispenser, its tiny pink nose twitching. The cat prowled closer, its claws clicking against the floor, its pupils dilating as it prepared to pounce.

The mouse paused, then turned to the dispenser, sipping from a spout that dripped a strange, pinkish liquid. The change was almost instant. The mouse’s body swelled grotesquely, its limbs elongating as its movements grew unnaturally fast. The cat hissed, stepping back, its tail up in alarm.

"Feeding time," the spectacled man said softly.

The room watched in charged silence as the mouse darted forward with blinding speed, slamming into the cat. A brief, terrible screech echoed as the glass cage shuddered. Then—stillness.

"And the side effects?" the man in the corner asked, his voice even, though the scene before him was anything but.

"Stabilizing," the spectacled man replied, wiping his hands on a cloth as though he had just completed a routine task.

A long silence hung between them, broken only by the faint sound of the cage’s glass settling.

"You have a subject in mind?" the spectacled man asked finally, his tone devoid of humanity.

The man in the corner let out a low chuckle, his glowing eye gleaming as it turned toward the now-empty chair where Deckard had been sitting.

"Someone just volunteered."

Chapter Text

Vi danced around the boxing dummy, her fists a blur in her battered gloves, sweat dripping down her temple. Claggor was sprawled across the old couch, a smirk on his face, while Nyra lounged beside him, her hands fluttering in a series of sarcastic signs.

Mylo groaned dramatically from his bean bag throne, a small ball sailing up and down as he tossed it absentmindedly. “Remind me why we bother with this dump again?” he muttered, catching the ball with a lazy flourish.

Vi thudded her fists together, the sound reverberating in the room. “Because Vander said to lay low,” she replied, wiping her forehead. “And since enforcers don’t come down here, it’s as good a place as any.”

Claggor chuckled, nudging Nyra, who responded with an exaggerated eye roll. “What’s the matter, Mylo? Afraid Blue’s gonna beat you again?”

“Hey!” Mylo shot upright, pointing a finger at Claggor. “If she didn’t keep messing with these things…” He gestured at Powder’s tinkered shooting range—a contraption of scrap wood and wobbling, painted figures.

“…you wouldn’t keep missing?” Claggor finished for him, smirking.

Powder, who’d been crouched behind the shooting range tinkering, jumped up, holding two tubes triumphantly. She gave Mylo a smirk as he jumped in the air, snapping the tubes together. The wooden targets sprang to life, sliding side to side with cartoonish faces Powder had scrawled on them.

Mylo groaned but dragged himself up, grabbing a toy gun loaded with red foam balls. He squared up, mobster-style, and let loose, his shots scattering wildly.

“You guys know I wouldn’t take you on a job you couldn’t handle, right?” Vi said, leaning against the wall and watching the chaos unfold.

“Are you kidding? That was the best job we’ve ever done,” Mylo replied, still missing most of his shots. He turned to glare at Powder. “Maybe just don’t take Blue next time.”

Powder narrowed her eyes and whipped out her own gun. Without a word, she aimed and fired, hitting each target squarely in the head or heart. The plates spun wildly on their axes as she looked at Mylo, triumphant. For good measure, she kept shooting one target repeatedly, driving her point home with a single arched brow.

Nyra laughed silently, her hands dancing in rapid signs that made Claggor snort. Mylo, oblivious, threw his hands up in defeat.

Powder’s grin faded as she turned toward the window. “Um…” she began hesitantly.

Outside, a commotion was unfolding. A group of enforcers was roughing up a man with short hair, crowding around him like a mob.

“Tell me where I can find them,” one barked, shaking the man by his lapels.

The man spat on the enforcer’s shoe.

Powder’s eyes widened. “Hey, guys? You should see this—”

CRASH! The man came sailing through the window of the hideout, glass shattering around him as he hit the ground unconscious.

The enforcers turned their attention to the hideout. “Search them,” one ordered, motioning toward the now-broken window.

Vi’s head snapped around. “Lights!” she hissed.

Claggor yanked a lever, plunging the room into shadow.

The first enforcer through the door didn’t even see Powder coming. She kicked him square in the gut, darting toward the shooting range. Nyra slipped past him, delivering a swift kick to the nuts that had the man doubling over. She darted behind a crate, her eyes scanning for an opening to help Powder. 

Mylo jumped out from behind the shooting range with a warrior's cry, shooting with the foam ball gun at two enforcers, his shots hitting their targets perfectly, but doing no damage due to the foam ammo. He quickly ducked behind a crate, clutching his gun close to his chest.

Powder ducked behind one of the wooden figures as an enforcer grabbed for her. He managed to snag the back of her shirt.

“Gotcha now—”

POW! Powder slammed the figure’s jaw-like arm onto his hand, breaking his grip and scrambling away.

Vi hurled the headplate of the dummy she’d been fighting at another enforcer, knocking him off-balance. “Move!” she yelled, her voice sharp.

The kids bolted, spilling out of the hideout and into the maze of streets outside. Behind them, the leader's shout rang out: “Stop them!”

But they didn’t stop.

They ran until they were cornered, the enforcers closing in from both ends of the alley.

“Over here!” A whistle cut through the tense air. Ekko was perched on a rooftop above, frowning as he shoved down a metal ladder. The kids scrambled up, Vi leading the way and pulling up everyone after her. Her hands found purchase around Nyra's waist, tugging her up and over the rooftop's railing, her eyes briefly flashing to Nyra's face, and then to her sister. She extended a hand towards Powder.

Powder was last, climbing frantically as an enforcer grabbed her ankle. She shrieked, kicking wildly.

Nyra grabbed a piece of concrete and hurled it. It smacked the enforcer squarely in the head. He let go with a grunt, and Powder scrambled up after the others.

They hauled the ladder up and disappeared through a tunnel, sparing their pursuers one last look and leaving them below.

“You need to hide those crystals,” Vi panted, rounding on Powder as soon as they were safe.

“Yeah,” Powder replied, pulling a glowing hex crystal from her pocket. She was still catching her breath but managed a nonchalant nod. “No shit.”

---

The Last Drop was buzzing with tension. Vander stood behind the bar, arms crossed, leaning slightly against it with a calmness that belied the storm brewing around him. The kids lingered nervously in the entryway to the basement, peeking over each other to watch the confrontation unfold.

Scattered around the tavern, people had gathered in loose clusters, muttering and glancing toward Vander. In the middle of it all stood Sevika, her imposing frame towering over the others. She slammed her hands on a table, her cropped hair shifting with the force of her movement. Nyra, against her will, caught herself thinking about how scarily attractive the woman looked, only to quickly shake the thought away.

“We should hit them back,” Sevika growled, her voice carrying authority. “We’ve got the numbers to beat them.”

“Yeah! Let’s teach them what it means to mess with us!” someone shouted from the back.

A wave of agreement swept through the crowd, voices rising in chaotic unison.

“Yeah!”

Vander’s voice cut through like a sharp blade. “You sure that’s what you want?” He didn’t move from his place, but the weight of his words seemed to ripple through the room.

The crowd quieted, uneasy murmurs fading as Vander’s steady gaze swept across them.

“We crossed that bridge once before,” he continued, his voice low and firm. “And we all know how that ended.”

Nyra’s breath hitched, her mind flickering back to a different night years ago. Her mother’s face, still and lifeless, floated in her memory for a fleeting moment. She swallowed hard, pushing the image away, her hands clenched tightly at her sides.

“You’re just protecting your kids,” someone muttered bitterly.

“I’m protecting our people,” Vander shot back, his voice gaining an edge. He gestured to the crowd, his eyes meeting theirs one by one. “I’d do the same for any one of you. We look out for each other. It’s the way it’s always been.”

“This will blow over,” Vander continued, his voice softer now but no less commanding. “We just need to stand together.”

Sevika scoffed, crossing her arms. “The Vander I knew, the one who built the underground,” she said, waving a hand at him, “wouldn’t be afraid to fight.”

Vander straightened up, stepping closer to her, his presence suddenly filling the space between them. “Do I look afraid?” he asked, his tone quiet but deadly.

Sevika stared back at him, her eyes cold and unyielding. “No,” she admitted after a moment. Then, a sneer spread across her face. “You look weak.”

The room went silent as Sevika whistled sharply, the sound slicing through the tense air. She turned on her heel and strode out of the bar, her small group of followers trailing behind her.

The kids exchanged uneasy glances.

“Why isn’t he doing anything?” Claggor muttered under his breath.

“We kicked the Enforcers’ butts with just the four of us,” Powder added, a note of glee in her voice. “Imagine what the whole of the Lanes could do.”

“Jeez, even Blue wants to fight,” Mylo said with a snort. “So, why aren’t we?”

Vi stood still, her fists clenched at her sides, her face tight with frustration. She noticed Ekko fidgeting nervously nearby, his gaze fixed on the floor.

“Spill it, Ekko,” Vi demanded, stepping closer to him.

Ekko flinched, his hands wringing his sleeves. “Um…” he hesitated, looking around before blurting out, “Well, um, Vander’s got a deal with the Enforcers.”

Vi’s eyes narrowed. “What deal?”

---

Downstairs in the kids’ room, the group settled into their usual spots. Vi led the way, her movements sharp as she tugged Ekko along by his sleeve. The others trailed behind, exchanging wary glances but saying nothing as they filed in.

The room was dim, lit by a single flickering bulb that cast long shadows on the worn furniture. The kids piled onto the mismatched couches, their usual chatter replaced with a heavy silence. Ekko stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, his hands wringing his sleeves as he avoided their gazes.

Nyra was the first to move. She rose from her seat, her presence calming, and walked over to Ekko. She gently took his small hand in hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze. When he finally looked at her, her smile was soft, kind, and full of understanding.

Her hands began to move, signing with swift, deliberate gestures. The group watched her in rapt silence as she recounted what had happened at Benzo’s shop.

"When we were at Benzo’s," Nyra signed, her face serious, "two Enforcers came in. The sheriff—Grayson—and this guy named Marcus. He looked like he had a really short fuse."

She paused for a moment, her hands still, before continuing.

"Grayson said something... about a deal with Vander." Her fingers moved slower now, as if weighing each word. "He keeps us off the Piltover streets, and in return... she keeps the Enforcers out of the Lanes. No raids. No enforcement."

When Nyra finished, her hands dropped to her sides, but her expression stayed detached.

The room was thick with disbelief. Powder blinked a few times, her mouth opening and closing as though searching for words. Claggor frowned deeply, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, while Mylo’s face twisted into a scowl.

Vi didn’t say a word. She sat still, her jaw clenched tightly, her gaze distant.

"Are you serious?" Mylo finally blurted, his voice laced with disbelief. “That’s why he didn’t want to fight back? A deal?!”

“No way…” Powder whispered, hugging her knees to her chest.

Ekko fidgeted nervously under their scrutiny, his hands moving to his sleeves again.

Vi shifted suddenly, her hand reaching up to the left side of her head. She tugged at the longer strands of her hair, her fingers twisting rhythmically as if the motion could wring the tension out of her. She stared at her feet, her expression dark and unreadable.

“How could he…?” she muttered, her voice barely audible.

The room fell silent again, the weight of the revelation sinking in. 

---

The old cannery was brightly lit, rays of sun entering the decrepit building through the non-existent rooftop. Shadows clung to every corner, and the air smelled faintly of rust and decay. Multicolored vein-like growths sprawled across the cracked floor, pulsating faintly as if alive. They snaked across the room, converging toward a single open door on the left.

Marcus stepped inside, his polished boots crunching against the gritty floor. His posture was tense, shoulders squared, one hand resting on the handle of his holstered weapon. His sharp eyes scanned the room, wary of its alien stillness.

From the left, the soft crunch of gravel cut through the silence. A shadow moved over the door and a man emerged, leaning casually against the frame. Though his figure was obscured in the shadows, his presence was magnetic.

“First time I’ve been invited to the Lanes,” Marcus said, his voice tinged with disdain as he adjusted his coat. “It better be worth my time.”

The man tilted his head, his eyes glinting faintly in the light. “Ah, you see, that’s your weakness, Marcus,” he replied smoothly, his voice a low purr.

He stepped forward, his movements fluid, almost predatory, as he began to circle Marcus like a hyena sizing up its prey. “You carry your chin so high,” the man continued, his tone laced with a mocking edge, “you fail to see the opportunity below.”

Marcus stiffened, following the man’s movements with sharp, jerking turns of his head. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice clipped but betraying a flicker of unease.

The man stopped just behind him, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial mutter. “You’re looking for four children,” he said, amusement lacing his words as if this were some great inside joke.

He moved back into Marcus’s line of sight, his smile growing sharper. “The ones running circles around Piltover’s finest.”

Marcus squared his jaw, his hand tightening around his weapon. “What about it?” he snapped, his tone defensive.

The man’s expression didn’t change; his grin deepened, his eyes gleaming with a cruel sort of delight. “Don’t look so concerned,” he drawled, his voice dripping with mock reassurance. “I’m about to make your day.”

Chapter Text

The air hummed with the bubbling of chemicals and the occasional metallic clink. A large fish swam lazily across the massive window, its sleek body illuminated by eerie bioluminescence. Its scales shimmered like liquid metal against the dark water beyond, a distraction in an otherwise suffocatingly grim room.

The taller of the two men stood near the center of the lab, a vial of pink liquid balanced delicately between his fingers. He inspected it with the precision of someone observing the edge of a dagger. His voice was sharp, yet soft—a blade wrapped in silk.
"Will he live?" he asked, gaze never leaving the swirling pink fluid.

The second man, bent over his cluttered workbench, adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses with a gloved hand. His shoulders hunched slightly as he murmured, without looking up, "Long enough."

Behind them, the heavy door creaked open, and Deckard shuffled in, his eyes flickering nervously between the two men before settling on the massive fish outside the window. He stepped closer, his breath fogging the glass as he peered into the murky depths, captivated.

"Beautiful, aren’t they?" the taller man said, breaking the silence. He approached Deckard, his steps smooth and deliberate, each one a subtle reminder of his authority.

Deckard hesitated, his face impassive as he kept his eyes pointed toward the glass. "They're monsters."

The man smirked faintly, his reflection merging with Deckard's in the glass. "There’s a monster inside all of us," he said softly, as if sharing a secret he’d spent years perfecting.

From the pocket of his coat, he produced the pink vial again, holding it out with a slow, almost reverent motion. The liquid caught the dim light, casting dim streaks of pink onto the walls.

Deckard took a step back, shaking his head violently. "What? No. No, no! It'll kill me!"

"I'd like to let you in on a very important secret," the man replied, his voice measured and calm, as though they were discussing tea preferences rather than life-altering substances. He turned the vial over in his hand, the light catching the liquid in hypnotic swirls. "I learned it when I was about your age."

Deckard blinked, uncertain if this was supposed to reassure him or terrify him further.

"You see, power," the man continued, his tone hardening as the word escaped his lips like an accusation, "real power doesn’t come to those born the strongest, or the fastest, or the smartest." He stepped closer, his gaze never wavering. "No. It comes to those who will do anything to achieve it."

The words lingered in the air, heavy and unrelenting. Deckard swallowed audibly, the sound unnaturally loud in the silent lab.

"It’s time to let the monster out."

The vial was offered to Deckard again, its weight far more than a mere container of liquid. His gaze darted to the man at the workbench, who gave a slight nod of affirmation without breaking stride in his tinkering.

With one final, ragged breath, Deckard grabbed the vial, popped the cork and tipped it back, the liquid burning a sickly trail down his throat. He coughed, doubling over as his body rejected the foreign substance, his hands clutching the edge of the workbench for support.

The lab fell silent, save for his labored breathing. The taller man folded his arms, his expression unreadable, while the one at the workbench continued his work, unperturbed by the transformation beginning to unfold before him.

Deckard’s breathing quickened, his hands trembling. Then came the first crack—his fingers began to elongate grotesquely, the bones shifting as purple flesh bubbled across his arms. He let out a guttural scream, clawing at his face as his body writhed, reshaping itself into something inhuman.

From the shadows, the tall man watched, calm as ever, a faint smile ghosting across his lips.

---

The Last Drop pulsed with life. Neon lights bathed the room in pinks, blues, and oranges, the colors reflecting off the assortment of grimy bottles lining the shelves. A patron at the far end of the bar laughed loudly, his hand slamming the counter, while another grumbled about his luck at the card table. Vander stood behind the bar, polishing a glass to a mirror shine, the towel in his hand slung over one shoulder. He eyed the communication tube on the bartop, his eyes flickering between it and the regulars in the room. He didn’t miss a beat as he reached under the counter to grab a bottle for a regular. 

The door banged open.

Every sound in the room was sucked away as heads turned.

Enforcers marched in, boots clanking in unison, their masks hissing ominously with each breath. The lead enforcer, Marcus, strode forward like he owned the place, peeling his mask off with a long, slow hiss. His smirk hit before his voice did. Vander quickly grabbed the tube and placed it under the bar.

"Welcome to The Last Drop," Vander greeted smoothly, his deep voice cutting through the tense silence. Unfazed, he slung the towel over his shoulder with the ease of a man who’d done this a thousand times before. "What can I get you?" he asked, his voice calm, even welcoming.

"Four sump-rats will do," Marcus said with mock politeness. He tossed his mask onto the counter and gestured toward the hallway that led to the basement. "Search the place."

One enforcer nodded and stomped toward the hallway, his growling breath reverberating as he disappeared into the back.

Vander’s mouth tugged into a faint smirk. He ducked behind the counter, ostensibly reaching for a bottle. His fingers brushed a bright red button under the bar, and he pressed it with deliberate ease. "While you’re wasting your time," he said lightly, reappearing with a dusty, unlabeled bottle, "how about a proper drink?"

Marcus leaned against the bar, oozing arrogance. "I’ll take the strongest shit you’ve got."

---

Down below, in the basement of the bar, a small metal panel slid open. A mechanical monkey tumbled out, its cymbals clanging together in a sharp rhythm. The sound jolted the children—Powder, Vi, Nyra, Mylo, Claggor, and Ekko—who were sprawled across the room.

Powder dropped her tools, eyes wide as the warning sunk in.

Nyra’s hands flew in quick, urgent movements:
"Hide. Now. Pipes. Quiet."

The kids scrambled into action. Powder shoved her scattered blueprints into her pouch, struggling to haul herself up to the pipes above. Vi leapt up with practiced ease, Claggor right beside her, closely followed by Mylo, while Ekko climbed nimbly onto a high beam. Nyra lingered, her eyes scanning the room for anything left behind before hoisting herself up last.

The room was eerily silent by the time the enforcer pushed open the door. The sharp hiss of his breathing punctuated the quiet as his flashlight beam swept the room. The cymbal monkey lay motionless on the floor, its clanging silenced.

The enforcer moved slowly, his heavy boots crunching against the wood floor. He crouched, checking under the bed, then yanked open a rusted vent cover. Above him, Powder hung precariously from the pipes, her fingers slipping on the slick metal.

---

Marcus swirled his drink in his glass, taking a tentative whiff. His nose wrinkled at the smell, and Vander couldn’t help but smirk.

"Mm. You be careful with that," Vander said, his voice low with amusement.

Marcus glanced at the bottle on the counter, noticing something on the bottom of it. A dead horned toad. His lips twisted into a humorless smile.

"Nearly forgot," he said, setting the glass down. His tone was as sharp as the edge of a blade. "I ran into an old friend of yours."

Vander’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face.

Marcus chuckled darkly, enjoying the moment. "He had some... stories."

Without warning, Marcus grabbed Vander’s pipe right out of his hands. Vander slammed his hands onto the bar, the sound echoing across the room. The patrons stood abruptly, their chairs scraping against the floor.

Marcus’s enforcers responded instantly, raising their batons. Vander shook his head slightly, signaling for the patrons to back down. Slowly, they settled, but their eyes remained on Marcus, untrusting and fierce. They then flickered to Vander, carrying silent accusation.

"You weren’t always the peacekeeper, were you?" Marcus taunted, his smirk venomous. He twirled the pipe in his fingers before tossing it into the glass.

The liquid ignited with a brief sizzle, red flames dancing in the cup.

Vander’s eyes flicked to the cast-iron gauntlets hanging above the bar. The gauntlets he used in the mining fissures years ago. The same ones he used to take lives on the Bridge of Progress not too far in the past. His voice was low but steady. "Yeah, well, you can’t escape the past. Right?"

Marcus followed Vander’s gaze, his smirk faltering ever so slightly.

"Be a shame if I had to put them on again," Vander added, gesturing toward the gauntlets. "Cast iron’s, well, it’s hard to clean."

---

Powder’s grip slipped further. Her toes almost lost their purchase on the pipe. Nyra inched closer to Powder, trying to steady her, but the pipes groaned ominously under her shifting weight.

The enforcer paused, glancing back at the sound. Nyra froze, her heart pounding as the enforcer frantically flashed his flashlight around the room.

A tense moment passed, then another. The enforcer let out a grunt, muttering something unintelligible. He turned back to the beds, shaking his head, then straightened and headed for the door.

As it slammed shut behind him, Powder lost her grip entirely. She tumbled to the floor with a muffled thud, narrowly missing falling on her head. Nyra winced and dropped down to help her. Powder gave a sheepish grin, flashing a shaky thumbs-up.

---

The enforcer returned to Marcus' side, shaking his head in displeasure, and Marcus looked down at his feet, his face twitching in anger.

He stood up angrily, whipping out his baton and gesturing wildly with it.

Marcus sneered at the patrons. "You people down here are all the same. Mistaking arrogance for bravery."

His voice dripped with disdain as he scanned the room. "You think you’re standing up for something, but we all know there’s a crime behind every coin that passes through this place."

Marcus slammed his baton into the drink Vander poured him, scattering the burning liquid across the bar. Flames licked briefly at the wood before dying out.

"You’re just a small man in a little hole the world forgot to bury," Marcus spat, pulling his mask back on. "And I’m gonna bury the lot of you."

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving silence in his wake.

Vander sighed, running a hand over his face. "Another day in paradise," he muttered, then spared an apologetic look at the patrons and rushed to the basement.

---

The children’s room was chaos. Powder sat on the floor, her legs sprawled out and her messy hair framing her flushed face. Vi dusted herself off angrily, muttering under her breath, while Ekko checked if the enforcer had tampered with his half-finished gadget, his face scrunched in suspicion. Mylo and Claggor were busy talking to each other in hushed voices.

Nyra crouched by Powder, gently tugging the younger girl’s sleeve to check for scrapes.

The door swung open with a bang. Vander filled the frame, his broad shoulders seeming to block out the light behind him. His face was a storm of worry.
"Are you all okay?" he asked, striding in.

"No, we’re not okay," Vi snapped, brushing her hands off on her pants. Her voice pitched higher as she gestured toward Powder. "They almost saw my sister!"

"What if they took her?" she continued, her tone climbing into panic.

Vander stepped forward, his voice steady and low. "No one is taking any of you."

"I would never let that happen," he added, his eyes softening for a moment.

Vi shook her head, her breath coming faster. "It’s already happening! You heard him! They won’t stop!"

Nyra, still crouching next to Powder, caught Vi’s eyes and nodded in quiet agreement.

"We need to fight back," Vi said, slamming her fist sideways into the wall with a loud clank. The vibrations rattled the air as she turned back to Vander, her voice colder now. "And if you won’t, I will."

Vander rubbed his face, his sigh a deep rumble in the tense room. "I’ve heard this kind of talk before. Come." He motioned to Vi, then turned to Nyra, his expression unreadable.

Nyra blinked, surprised. She pointed at herself, tilting her head as if to ask, “Me?”

Vander nodded once. "Yes, you too."

---

The sky was gray, heavy with clouds that churned and grumbled with distant thunder. Rain slicked the massive cables of the bridge, their reflective surfaces casting blurred streaks of light against the wet pavement. Nyra kept her hands in her pockets, her fingers brushing over the cool surface of her locket.

Her eyes caught the edge of a small memorial tucked into the bridge's pillar. Candles flickered inside delicate lanterns, the flames casting warm glows over worn photographs.

The image of her father’s portrait swam into her mind, vivid and sharp. Her mother’s face followed, lifeless and gray. The memories hit her like a wave, but Vi's voice broke through before she could be fully swept away.

"Why are we here?" Vi asked, pulling her hood tighter against the wind.

Nyra took a step closer, signing with a flourish of annoyed gestures. “Yes, why are WE here? Most specifically—me.”

Vander leaned against the pillar, his arms crossed. His voice was calm but firm. "You’re here because you’re just as responsible as her." His eyes flicked to Nyra, then back to Vi.

"You still don’t understand," he added, shaking his head slightly.

Vi’s expression twisted into something stormy. "What I don’t understand is how you can work with them," she shot back, her words venomous.

Nyra nodded silently beside her, her arms crossed in agreement.

"We were here," Vi continued, gesturing toward the bridge’s steel supports. "We saw what they did."

Nyra’s heart sank as her words cut through the air. Her vision blurred with fragmented memories—the bridge, fire, and her mother’s lifeless face. She blinked them away, focusing on Vi again.

"I grew up knowing I’m less than them," Vi said, her voice raw. "That my place is down there."

Nyra’s chest tightened, and she found herself nodding again, her fingers curling into fists.

"I want my sister to have more than that," Vi continued, her voice trembling but determined. "And I’m willing to fight for it."

Vander’s head dipped slightly, his gaze growing distant. "So was I," he said quietly. "I was angry, just like you."

"I led us across this bridge," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "Thinking things could change."

He paused, his jaw tightening. "If I hadn’t…" His voice trailed off.

Nyra felt her stomach drop.

"Your parents would still be alive," Vander said softly, looking at Vi, then Nyra. His shoulders slumped, and he let out a weary sigh.

The rain began to fall harder, tapping against the steel around them.

"I know you wanna hurt the topsiders for what they’ve done to us," Vander said, his voice steady again. "But who are you willing to lose?"

He straightened, his gaze sharp as he pinned Vi with a look. "Mylo? Claggor? Your sister?"

Vi’s lips parted, but no words came out.

Vander turned to Nyra, his voice heavy with warning. "Ekko?"

Nyra looked down, her hands tightening around the locket in her pocket.

"Nobody wins in war, kids," Vander said, his voice almost drowned out by the rumbling thunder.

The silence stretched, broken only by the patter of rain. Finally, Vi sighed, leaning against Vander’s shoulder with a defeated slump.

Nyra lingered a moment before stepping closer, leaning her weight against the cold stone of the pillar. She looked up at him, her gaze questioning.

"What are we gonna do?" Vi asked quietly, her voice breaking the stillness.

Vander glanced at both of them, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I… I don’t know," he admitted, his tone softer now. "I’ll, uh, I’ll figure it out."

Nyra sighed, her fingers toying absently with the locket again. She let her eyes drift toward the horizon, the rain blurring the bridge’s distant end into a haze of silver and gray.

---

Nyra pushed open the door to the little house, her damp fingers struggling with the stubborn latch. The hinges creaked, and she slipped inside with a sigh. Dropping her sopping wet shoes by the entrance, she nudged them into their usual spot with her toe.

Her feet squelched against the wood floor as she trudged to the fireplace. Grudge sat at the table, his dark coat blending into the shadows behind him. A newspaper was clenched tightly in his hands, the edges crumpled by his white-knuckled grip. His stormy gaze tracked Nyra as she entered, his jaw set in a hard line.

"Where were you?" he asked, his voice low and cold.

Nyra ignored him. She made her way to the fireplace, shaking off her socks with a grimace and stretching her toes toward the warmth. She winced as the heat prickled her frozen skin, her fingers curling and uncurling as she tried to rub the chill from her hands.

Grudge’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t move from his spot, but his voice came again, sharper this time. "Where. Were. You?"

Nyra closed her eyes, inhaling deeply through her nose. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her knees.

Grudge’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood, his voice carrying an edge now. "I’ve heard about the explosion Topside. Vander’s kids were involved. I know they were. And I know you were too."

Nyra’s eyes fluttered open, her expression wary as she glanced at him. She let out a slow, silent sigh before turning back to the fire. Her hands moved swiftly, signing with frustration: “It doesn’t matter. It already happened.”

Grudge’s fist came down hard on the table, rattling the few dishes stacked at its edge. The crack of wood reverberated through the room.

"It does matter!" he barked, his voice booming in the cramped space. Nyra flinched, her shoulders tensing.

Grudge was rarely loud. This was the first time in years that his temper had surfaced. The first time since the 'Melodie' incident.

"The enforcers know who to look for," he continued, his words cutting through the heavy silence. "Five kids. They know what they look like. And they know to look for you."

Nyra tugged on a strand of her hair, twisting it tightly around her fingers. Her gaze flicked to the window, then back to the fire. She turned toward him, her movements slow. Her hands spoke with defiance: “What can I do about that? It already happened. And you don't think of me as your kid anyway. So cut it off.”

Grudge’s boots thudded against the floor as he crossed the room. He crouched in front of her, his coat pooling around him like a dark cloud. His face was hard, the familiar reluctant warmth absent from his features.

"I’ll ask you once," he said quietly, his tone low but chilling. "And I want the truth." He leaned in slightly, his eyes boring into hers. "Did any of them see you?"

Nyra’s stomach churned as the memory hit her like a splash of cold water. The mocking salute she had thrown at the enforcer flashed in her mind—the flicker of his eyes narrowing, his mouth tightening. He definitely remembered her.

Her hands dropped into her lap, still as stone. She squeezed her eyes shut, her head dipping slightly before nodding once.

Grudge’s breath left him in a sharp exhale. The tension in the room seemed to press down even harder.

The flutter of his coat filled the silence as he rose to his feet. Nyra’s eyes shot open just in time to see him pulling the fabric tighter around his shoulders, his movements brisk and mechanical.

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Nyra alone with the crackle of the fire and the faint scent of rain still clinging to the air.

She leaned her forehead against her knees, her fingers absently brushing the locket still in her pocket.

---

The doors of the Last Drop slammed open, the force rattling the old hinges. Vander looked up sharply from where he was mopping the floor, his large hands gripping the wooden handle. The bar was empty, chairs stacked neatly on tables, the faint scent of spilled ale lingering as he prepared to lock up for the night.

Grudge stormed inside, his heavy boots echoing against the floorboards. Without missing a beat, he slammed the door shut, his chest heaving with barely restrained fury.

"When were you gonna tell me?" he bellowed, his voice rough and raw. "That Nyra was at the explosion? That she’s been seen by enforcers?"

Vander blinked, his brows knitting in confusion at the name. Nyra? His grip on the mop slackened slightly as he racked his brain, and then it hit him. Echo.

"I’ll handle it," Vander said after a brief pause, his voice steady but low. He leaned the mop against the counter. "You don’t need to worry about it, Elias. I’ve got it under control."

Grudge let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he stalked forward. His hands slammed down on a table, the thud reverberating through the quiet room.

"Under control?" he spat, his voice rising. His eyes glinted with rage as spittle flew from his mouth. "There are bad people at play, Vander. People from our own side, who’ll target her! Them! You think you can handle that?"

Vander straightened, his shoulders tensing. "What do you know, Elias? Where did you hear this?"

"Does it matter?" Grudge shot back, his fists curling at his sides. He took a step closer, his voice growing colder, sharper. "You’re not capable of handling this. You’re too afraid to take the offensive. That’s why your people keep dying—beaten to death by enforcers like dogs in the street."

Vander’s lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening.

Grudge leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "That’s why Melodie’s killer still runs amok. No justice. No consequences."

The name landed like a blow to Vander’s chest. His fists clenched at his sides as his breathing grew heavier. When he spoke, his voice was louder, his frustration finally bubbling to the surface.

"Revenge won’t bring her back, Elias, how many times must I remind you of that?!" Vander snapped, his tone laced with a deep, simmering anger.

Grudge sneered, his lip curling. "You think I don’t know that?" he said, his words dripping with venom. "But I also know this: you’re a coward, Vander. Too weak to take matters into your own hands. Too scared to do what’s necessary."

Vander’s face darkened, but he remained silent, his knuckles white as he gripped the mop handle again.

Grudge straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. His voice grew icier as he turned for the door. "I’ll protect her myself now." He paused, glancing back at Vander with a grim expression. "Out of respect for what we used to be, I’m telling you this: watch your back. There are people from the Undercity—our people—ready to turn against you. Pack up, take your kids, and leave before things get ugly."

Vander’s gaze dropped to the mop in his hand, his grip loosening slightly. He closed his eyes for a moment, a weariness settling over his broad frame. When he looked up, his voice was quieter but firm.

"I’ll take care of it," he said slowly. His eyes met Grudge’s, their usual warmth replaced by an unspoken heaviness. "I’ll protect my kids. And…" His voice softened, just barely. "I’m glad you see little Echo as your daughter now."

Grudge didn’t respond. He lingered for a second longer, then turned sharply on his heel and left, the door slamming shut behind him.

Vander stood in the empty bar, the silence pressing heavily around him. His fingers curled around the mop handle once more, his shoulders sagging as he stared down at the floor.

---

Nyra sat curled up by the fireplace, her wet socks forgotten in a crumpled heap beside her. The firelight painted her skin in soft golds and reds, the flickering shadows dancing across her wary features. Her fingers toyed with the locket hidden in her pocket for the hundredth time since the enforcers' visit. Finally, she pulled it out and flipped it open.

Her father's face stared back at her—a photograph that had faded slightly over time, but still captured his crinkled eyes and warm smile. It was a smile she recognized every time she caught herself in the mirror, though hers always felt less sure, less steady.

She traced the outline of his face with her finger, memorizing the angles of his jaw, the gentle curve of his nose. She didn’t need to; she already knew it by heart. But the motion calmed her, rooted her.

The reminder that Nyra had never met him made her squeeze the locket tighter. Her mother’s stories were the only pieces of him she had, fragments of a man who sounded like a myth, too noble for this harsh world. A man who had been brave. Strong. Powerful.

The words echoed in her mind. Her father had fought against the remnants of Noxus' old regime—brutal followers who clung to their power like leeches. He fought not for himself, but for Nyra’s mother, for their unborn child. For Nyra.

Her mother had painted the picture so vividly that it played in her mind like a memory. A stormy night on the churning seas. Her mother, heavily pregnant, clung to the railing of a small, rickety boat as rain lashed at her face. Behind them, the dark silhouette of another boat drew closer, the shouts of guards carrying over the waves.

Her father’s hand rested briefly on her mother’s shoulder, a silent goodbye. And then he was gone, diving into the freezing water with barely a splash. Nyra could almost feel the cold bite of the waves as she imagined him climbing onto the pursuing vessel, his wet hair plastered to his face.

He’d destroyed the engine, breaking it with his bare hands despite the guards rushing at him. Her mother’s boat drifted further and further away as she watched helplessly.

And then—

Nyra squeezed her eyes shut, the locket clutched tightly in her palm. She didn’t want to think of the rest, but she couldn’t stop it. The spears. His body collapsing into the water, swallowed by the storm. He hadn't even screamed.

Her chest felt tight, a heavy ache spreading through her ribs as she closed the locket with a sharp snap.

The thought bloomed quietly in her mind, growing stronger with each passing second. She had to give herself up. It was the only way. If it meant keeping her friends safe, if it meant they wouldn’t suffer for her mistakes, she’d do it. Just like her father once did for his family. Just like she would do for hers.

Nyra rested her chin on her knees, her eyes unfocused as memories swirled around her.

Powder, her wide-eyed innocence as she showed Nyra her gadgets. How many times had Nyra helped her adjust a cog or tighten a bolt? And how many times had she whispered words of encouragement after Mylo’s biting remarks left the little girl trembling with rage and shame?

Ekko, always covered in soot or oil, his tiny hands forever tinkering with scavenged scraps. Nyra smiled faintly, remembering how she’d fuss over him, scrubbing his face clean despite his protests. How he'd try swatting her hands away but always end up laughing giddily at Nyra's affection.

Mylo, his cocky smirk as they traded sharp-tongued insults. They’d spend hours sitting on rooftops, watching the topsiders strut through the Undercity like peacocks, picking their next pickpocket targets with giddy whispers.

Claggor, quiet and steady, his broad hands surprisingly delicate as he sketched in his notebook. Nyra would show him old books filled with music notes, her hands flying in rapid signs as she explained the meanings. Together, they’d cobble together a makeshift guitar, laughing as Claggor strummed it with clumsy determination.

And Vi.

Nyra’s throat tightened. She could almost see her—gray eyes blazing with determination, pink hair tangled and wild after another scrap. Vi always shrugged off her injuries, stubbornly refusing Nyra’s help until she caved under the younger girl’s glare.

She could be infuriating, her quips quick and sharp, her stubbornness unmatched. But she was always dependable, always strong. Vi, who stood up for the weak without hesitation.

Nyra thought of the way Vi’s eyes softened whenever she looked at Powder, or how she tried (and failed) to hide her pride when Nyra bested her in a challenge. 

Her rough hands, calloused from endless fights, always felt warm against Nyra’s skin when she let her patch her up. Nyra’s fingers flexed unconsciously, the phantom memory of those hands lingering.

How their hate had turned into something... more. And yet less. Something Nyra didn't have the luxury of trying to understand.

Her mind drifted to the curve of Vi’s lips when she smiled, to the spark of life in her eyes when she made a sarcastic quip. Nyra pressed her forehead against her knees, her face heating as a pang of something sharp and tender twisted in her chest.

She couldn’t let Vi—any of them—get hurt because of her.

Her fingers closed around the locket once more. She’d made her decision.

Chapter Text

“I’ll be gone for a while, pops. Don’t wait for me.”

The words sat there on the crinkled scrap of paper, staring back at Nyra as if they could challenge her resolve. Her handwriting was a little messier than usual, her hand shaking slightly as she gripped the pen. It felt final—too final—but she didn’t cross it out. She couldn’t.

She tapped the end of the pen against the table, staring at the note like it might rewrite itself into something softer, something kinder. But there wasn’t time for soft. Nyra frowned and added a little flourish to her period, the dot blooming into a small spiral. Then, biting her lip, she drew a small fat chicken next to her words.

The chicken wore a cocky grin, one tiny wing clutching a cartoonishly large gun. The barrel gleamed with menace. It was ridiculous, and yet—it felt right. She smiled despite herself, her chest tightening at the thought of Grudge’s face when he saw it.

He’d probably curse and call her a little rat, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. Maybe he’d laugh a little, a sound she hadn’t heard enough of. Maybe.

Next to the note, she placed a small pouch of coins she’d painstakingly saved over months. It wasn’t much, but it was something. She scribbled another line on the paper:

“This is for you and the others. Don’t fight over it.”

Her lips twitched. Of course, they’d fight over it. She could practically hear the argument now. Who would get to keep a memento of her for the time she'd spend in prison for everyone's crimes.

Nyra stood back, scanning the scene. The note, the coins, the chicken. It looked… complete. And yet, her chest still felt heavy, like a stone had settled behind her ribs. She glanced at the small, tattered notebook sitting on her bed. Her fingers hovered over it for a moment, tracing the worn edges.

Leave it.

Her hand jerked back as if the thought were a command. She didn’t need it where she was going. It belonged here, safe among the scattered remnants of her life.

She adjusted the pouch, ensuring it caught the light just enough to be noticed, then turned away quickly, her still-wet boots scuffing against the floorboards. If she hesitated any longer, she might never leave.

---

The night air bit at her skin as she stepped outside, pulling her coat tightly around her shoulders. The undercity never truly slept, but tonight felt quieter—eerily so. The usual hum of distant machinery was replaced by the occasional drip of water from corroded pipes. Shadows stretched and danced under flickering neon lights, and Nyra moved through them like a wraith, her steps silent and deliberate.

Her hands were trembling, and she balled them into fists to stop the shaking. Brave, she reminded herself. Her lips formed the word silently, the syllables grounding her.

The weight of her decision pressed down on her with every step, but she kept moving. She focused on the rhythm of her boots against the cobblestones, the way her coat swished with each stride. She wouldn’t falter. She couldn’t.

The Last Drop loomed ahead, its dim lights spilling out onto the street like a beacon. She slipped inside, her eyes scanning the bar for the familiar metal tube Grayson had given to Vander at Benzo's shop. The air was thick with the lingering scent of stale beer, but the room was empty, the stools upturned on the tables.

Her pulse quickened when she didn’t see the tube. Her fingers twitched, a rising panic threatening to choke her. She moved toward the corner where the message machine stood, its lever recently pulled. Someone had sent a message.

Her chest tightened as realization struck. She wasn’t the first to act tonight.

---

The streets blurred past as Nyra sprinted through the undercity, her boots slapping against damp cobblestones. Her coat billowed behind her, snagging on a loose nail protruding from a crate, but she didn’t stop to fix it. Not now. Not yet. Her chest burned, and her lungs screamed for air, but she pressed on, the image of the freshly-pulled lever flashing in her mind.

Benzo’s shop loomed ahead, its familiar silhouette dim against the neon glow of nearby gas lamps. As Nyra approached, her eyes caught the faint glint of shattered glass on the ground. The door’s small pane was broken, shards scattered like fallen stars.

Her heart seized, and her pace quickened. She shoved the door open, its hinges creaking loudly in the stillness. The shop was eerily quiet, the only sound the faint hum of machinery from the street. And there, in the center of the room, Vi sat.

She was hunched forward in a wooden chair, her elbows resting on her knees, fingers idly fidgeting with the wraps around her hands. Her head snapped up at the sound of Nyra’s entrance, her gray eyes narrowing.

“Little Mouse?” Vi’s voice was sharp, confused. She stood quickly, the chair scraping against the floor with a harsh screech. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Nyra didn’t bother responding with her hands just yet. She stormed further inside, her hands trembling slightly as they moved in quick, sharp motions: "What are YOU doing here?!"

Vi blinked, stunned for half a second, before her jaw tightened. “None of your business. Go home,” she snapped, her voice low and forceful. She moved toward Nyra, trying to steer her back toward the door, but Nyra sidestepped her easily, planting herself firmly in the center of the room.

"No," Nyra signed furiously, her gestures so fast they were nearly a blur. "I’m not letting you do this. I won’t let you give yourself up."

Vi groaned, dragging a hand through her short, pink hair. She began pacing in short, jerky strides, her boots thudding against the floor. “Of course you’d do this. Of course you’d show up just to make everything harder.” She stopped abruptly, pointing at Nyra with an accusatory finger. “Why can’t you just let me do this for once? Why can’t you let me protect you?! Why are you always somehow getting in my way?!”

Nyra’s arms snapped up, her hands cutting through the air with precision. "Because I’m the better choice! I don’t have as much to lose as you!"

“That’s bullshit!” Vi shouted, her voice cracking slightly at the edges. She gestured wildly at the shop around them. “You have plenty to lose, little Mouse! More than you realize!”

Nyra’s fingers moved again, slower this time, but no less firm. "I won’t let you rot in jail for me."

Vi threw her head back with a groan, pacing again as she tugged on her hair. “You are the most stubborn, impossible person I’ve ever met,” she muttered under her breath. “Why can’t you see I’m trying to do something good here?”

Nyra stepped forward, planting herself directly in Vi’s path. She crossed her arms over her chest, her feet firmly rooted to the ground. Her expression was defiant, her brows drawn together in a silent I dare you.

Vi stopped dead, her hands curling into fists at her sides. They stood inches apart, their eyes locked in a battle of wills.

“You’re not moving, are you?” Vi’s voice was low now, almost a growl.

Nyra shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Vi threw her arms in the air, turning away for a moment before spinning back around. Her face was a storm of frustration and desperation. “Why do you always do this? Why can’t you let me—just once—make the sacrifice? You’re always patching me up, always fixing everything! For once, let me take the fall!”

Nyra’s hands moved again, slower this time. Her eyes shone with unshed tears as she signed, "They can’t lose you, Brute."

Vi’s patience snapped like a taut string. With a frustrated growl, she surged forward, scooping Nyra up as though she weighed nothing, slinging her over her shoulder in a single swift motion.

“Enough, Echo!” Vi barked, her voice cracking under the strain of suppressed emotions. Her boots stomped against the wooden floor as she marched toward the basement stairs.

Nyra thrashed wildly, her fists pounding against Vi’s back, her muffled grunts punctuating each strike. Tears streaked her face, hot and relentless, dripping onto Vi’s jacket. She clawed at the fabric, trying to gain some leverage, her silent protests as loud as any scream.

“Stop fighting me!” Vi hissed, her voice trembling, though she didn’t slow down.

When they reached the basement, Vi gently but firmly set Nyra down on the cold, dusty floor. Nyra’s eyes blazed with a desperate fury, her hands moving so rapidly they blurred: "I won’t let you do this! I won’t!"

But before Nyra could fully rise, Vi turned and bolted up the stairs. The sharp creak of the wooden steps echoed in the confined space, each sound a dagger in Nyra’s heart.

For a moment, everything was still. Then, Nyra scrambled to her feet, wiping at her tear-streaked face. She burst up the stairs with frantic movements, shoving the door open with such force that it banged against the wall.

Vi was in the middle of slamming the door shut when Nyra collided with her.

She clung to Vi’s waist with all her strength, her arms wrapping tightly around her middle, her face pressed against Vi’s collarbone. Nyra’s body shook with silent sobs as she shook her head furiously, over and over, her grip refusing to falter.

Vi froze, her muscles locking under the weight of Nyra’s embrace. For a moment, she simply stood there, staring straight ahead, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides.

“Little Mouse…” Vi’s voice was low, choked. “Let go. Please.”

Nyra shook her head again, her hold tightening like a vise. Her trembling hands signed against Vi’s back, though the motions were almost impossible to read: "I can’t. I can’t let you go. Don’t make me let you go."

Vi’s breath hitched. She felt Nyra’s tears soaking into her jacket, the tremor in her arms. “Why are you making this so damn hard?” she whispered, more to herself than Nyra.

But Nyra didn’t move. She only clung tighter, her body practically melding with Vi’s as if sheer proximity could stop her from giving herself up.

Vi’s jaw clenched, her throat tightening with unshed tears. She hated this. She hated the way Nyra’s actions cut through her resolve like a blade, hated how much she wanted to give in. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

“Echo…” Vi’s voice dropped to a whisper, her hands trembling as they cupped Nyra’s face. “I’m so sorry.”

Before Nyra could respond, Vi’s fist connected with the side of her head, a precise blow that left no room for pain—only silence. Nyra crumpled into her arms, her eyes snapping shut as her body went limp.

Vi caught her easily, lowering her gently to the floor. She knelt there for a moment, her hands trembling as they brushed a strand of hair from Nyra’s face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again, her voice breaking completely.

She leaned down, pressing her forehead against Nyra’s for a moment before drawing back. Her fingers lingered on Nyra’s cheek, tracing the curve of her jaw, committing her face to memory.

Then, with a deep, shuddering breath, Vi stood. She carried Nyra back down to the basement, her movements slow and deliberate, as though she was savoring the moment. She took off her jacket and placed Nyra gently on it, shoving a bundled-up burlap sack under her head.

Vi lingered for a moment, her fingers brushing against Nyra’s for the last time. “Stay safe,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

When she finally turned away, her face was a mask of steel, though her red-rimmed eyes betrayed her. She climbed the stairs and closed the door behind her, sliding a chair under the handle to block it.

For a moment, she stood there, her hand resting on the doorknob. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the wood, her breathing shallow and uneven.

When she finally moved, it was as though she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. She sank into the chair near the shop counter, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

Her gaze never strayed from the door, her eyes unblinking, but the tears came anyway, silent and relentless, tracing silent paths down her face. She didn’t bother wiping them away.

---

Vi sat rigid in the dim light of Benzo’s shop, her eyes fixed on the door like it might burst open at any moment. Her foot tapped a frantic rhythm against the floor, the nervous energy refusing to dissipate. She clenched her fists, forcing her breathing to steady, even as a deep knot of dread twisted in her gut. Her tears had long dried up, leaving salty streaks on her cheeks. All that was left was her determination to protect her family.

The sound of footsteps made her straighten, the hair on the back of her neck rising. Her heart thudded painfully. They were here. It had to be them. The enforcers. She bit her lip and braced herself.

But when the door swung open, it wasn’t the enforcers.

It was Vander.

Behind him, Benzo stood in the shadow of the doorway, his usual playful smirk replaced with a mask of pure worry.

“Vander?” Vi blinked, her voice breaking in disbelief.

Vander sighed and stepped inside, his imposing frame filling the room. “We don’t have much time.”

Vi stood, her fists clenched at her sides. “How did you find me?” she demanded, but the question came out more like an accusation.

Vander didn’t answer. Instead, he crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps. He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, his warm, calloused palm grounding her. His dark eyes softened as they met hers, his face lined with pride and love.

“I’m proud of you. Always have been,” he said, his voice low and steady.

Vi swallowed hard, the knot in her throat threatening to choke her. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice trembling. “I... This is the only way to protect the others.”

A sharp bark echoed in the distance, making Benzo jump. He glanced toward the alley, his expression tight with fear. “Vander,” he murmured, his tone urgent.

But Vander didn’t move. His gaze remained locked on Vi’s, his hand squeezing her shoulder gently. “You’ve got a good heart,” he said. “Don’t ever lose it. No matter how the world tries to break you.”

Vi’s chest tightened. She opened her mouth to argue, but Vander pressed on, his words resolute. “Protect the family.”

“What are you–” Vi began, but her words dissolved into a startled grunt as Vander suddenly yanked the chair from under the basement door handle. Before she could react, he swung the door open, pushed her inside, and slammed it shut.

“No!” Vi shouted, banging her fists against the door. She rattled the handle furiously, but it refused to budge. “Let me out! This isn’t right!”

Her voice cracked as she pounded on the door, her breath coming out in shallow bursts.

Above, the shop door creaked open again. Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed through the room as Grayson and Marcus entered, their uniforms pristine and foreboding.

“I’m guessing that’s for me,” Grayson said dryly, her sharp gaze flicking toward the basement door.

Vander stepped in her path, blocking her view. Marcus moved to go around him, but Vander raised a hand, stopping him in his tracks.

“You gonna let us make the arrest or not?” Marcus asked, his tone laced with irritation.

Vander reached into his pocket and pulled out his pipe. He lit it with practiced ease, taking a slow drag as the flame illuminated the deep lines on his face. He exhaled a puff of smoke, the tendrils curling in the dim light.

“You’ll oblige a doomed man one last smoke,” he said, his voice calm, almost resigned. He took another puff, his eyelids briefly stuttering. “Won’t you?”

Grayson’s cold composure faltered. She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as she studied Vander’s face. “I’m not putting you away, Vander,” she said, her voice low and firm.

Vander met her gaze evenly. “The Council needs its pound of flesh,” he said.

“Without you down here, it all falls apart,” Grayson shot back, her words heavy with implication.

Vander huffed softly, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Benzo will handle things,” he said, glancing briefly at his old friend. “He may not have my devilish charm, but he runs a tight ship.”

Behind the door, Vi’s voice rose again, raw and desperate. “Vander, no! You can’t do this!”

Grayson’s expression hardened as she stepped forward, pulling a pair of cuffs from her belt. “You won’t be coming back for a long time,” she said quietly.

Vander nodded, his eyes heavy. “I know.”

The moment the cuffs closed around his wrists, a bloodcurdling scream tore through the air, cutting through the tension like a knife.

“What’s happening?” Vi whispered to herself, her breath hitching as she got closer to the small window at ground level.

Outside, chaos erupted. Vander, Benzo, Grayson, and Marcus sprinted outside to check what was making all that commotion.

A figure moved in the shadows, too fast to track, too vicious to be human. Grayson barely had time to pull out her gun before the creature—Deckard, warped and monstrous from shimmer—ripped her apart in a spray of blood.

Vi gasped, stumbling back from the window as the glass splattered crimson.

Benzo’s voice trembled. “What the devil...”

From the mist, the mysterious man always plotting in the shadows emerged, his pale, gaunt face twisted into a smile that sent chills down Vander’s spine.

“Silco,” Benzo growled, stepping forward, his pipe raised like a weapon. “You animal. Go crawl back into whatever hole you came out of.”

“Benzo, stay back!” Vander shouted, but his warning came too late.

"You never did know when to walk away," Silco stated simply, shaking his head matter-of-factly.

Deckard lunged, his claws slicing through Benzo with horrifying precision. The older man crumpled, his blood pooling on the floor.

“No!” Vander roared, his voice thick with grief.

Silco’s voice dripped with mockery. “Stubborn to the end.”

Marcus stared, horror etched on his face. “What the hell have you done? This wasn’t the deal!”

Silco shrugged, tossing a pouch of coins to the ground. “Deal’s changed.”

Before anyone could react, Deckard knocked Vander unconscious with a single brutal strike, dragging his limp body into the mist as Silco followed.

“Vander!” Vi screamed, her fists slamming against the basement door until her knuckles bled. “No!”

But it was too late.

---

Nyra woke to a sharp, panicked prodding. Her temples throbbed, and the dull ache where Vi had clocked her radiated through her skull. Groaning, she rubbed the side of her head and blinked against the murky light. The world swam for a moment before settling, and she focused on the small, trembling figure before her.

Ekko.

His face was pale, almost gray, his wide eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Tracks of dried salt streaked his cheeks. He was shaking like a leaf in a storm, his breaths coming in short, broken gasps. Nyra sat up straighter, her heart hammering with sudden alarm.

"What’s wrong?" Her hands moved instinctively, signing the words in sharp, urgent motions. "What happened? Did they take Pink? Is that why you’re crying?"

She barely finished signing before her gaze dropped to his hands.

Her breath hitched.

They were slick with blood—sticky, dark, and still damp in some places. Her stomach lurched, and her throat tightened, but her hands acted on autopilot. She yanked off her jacket, blood already crusted along the collar from before, and began wiping his hands frantically. The fabric soaked up the crimson as she worked, her wide, questioning eyes boring into his tear-streaked face.

Ekko sniffled, his lower lip wobbling like a toddler's, and the moment she touched him, the floodgates broke. He let out a long, broken sob, his little body shaking so hard it seemed he might splinter apart.

“They killed Benzo,” he blurted between ragged breaths, his words tumbling over themselves in a desperate rush. “Th-they killed the sheriff too. And—and some monster—this monster—just came out of nowhere, Nyra! It ripped them apart!” He gasped for air, his voice breaking on the last word. “And Vander—they took Vander! Pink went after him—she’s gonna go save him—”

Nyra’s head reeled. Her chest constricted as Ekko’s words slammed into her like hammer blows.

Benzo was dead.

The sheriff, too.

Vander, taken.

Vi, gone.

Her heart raced, the rhythm erratic and frantic, like a caged bird battering itself against the bars. For a moment, her vision blurred with panic, her thoughts an incoherent tangle of fear and fury. Then she looked at Ekko—at his bloodied hands, his tear-streaked cheeks—and the chaos inside her stilled.

She reached forward and cupped his face, her palms warm and steady against his cold, damp skin. His small hands clutched at her wrists instinctively, like a dying man clinging to a lifeline. Nyra pressed her forehead to his, closing her eyes and exhaling slowly.

I love you, little genius. She mouthed the words, her lips forming each syllable with deliberate tenderness. Then she kissed his forehead, her lips lingering for a heartbeat before she pulled away.

Ekko’s eyes searched hers, wide and brimming with worry, but Nyra was already standing. She shrugged back into her blood-caked jacket, her hands working automatically to fasten the clasps. She was on her feet, her body humming with restlessness.

“Where are you going?” Ekko’s voice cracked with a fresh wave of panic.

Nyra paused, her hands stilling on the collar of her jacket. She looked at him over her shoulder, her expression calm, resolute. "I don’t know." Her hands moved fluidly, the signs sharp and direct. "You’re going to tell me where they took Vander."

Ekko hesitated, his lips trembling as he tried to speak. His small body heaved with another sob before he stammered out, “T-the old cannery. They took him to the old cannery.”

Nyra nodded, her jaw tight and her eyes blazing with determination. "Wait for me here," she signed. "I’ll be right back."

Ekko’s arms shot out, wrapping around her waist in a fierce hug. His face buried into her middle, and she felt the damp warmth of his tears soak through her shirt. Her heart ached as she held him for a moment, her hand cradling the back of his head.

Then she slipped away, crossing the threshold of the store's door.

The sharp, metallic tang of blood hit her nose before she saw him. Benzo’s body lay crumpled outside the shop, mangled almost beyond recognition. Nyra froze, her throat tightening as a single tear rolled down her cheek. She crouched beside him, her fingers trembling as she reached out.

Gently, she pressed her lips to his forehead, a whisper of a kiss, as if trying to offer him some measure of peace in death. She softly closed his eyes, squeezing her own shut to suppress the tremors settling in her body.

She bowed her head deeply, the strands of her hair brushing his bloodied face. Goodbye, old fool, she mouthed silently, her lips barely moving.

When she rose, her face was set in grim determination. She cast him one last lingering look, her expression grief-stricken, before turning and running toward the old cannery.

The night swallowed her whole.
---

Powder heaved herself up over crumbling rock and rotted wood. The murmur of machinery hummed in her ears, mingling with distant, sharp-edged shouts. It felt like the city itself was holding its breath, tension coiling thick in the air, clinging to her skin. She clung to the splintered edge of a broken board, scaling the moss-streaked cannery wall. Her head spun, the world tilting with every hurried breath.

Her foot slipped.

The night jolted. Powder’s hand shot out, nails scraping against crumbling rock as her other clung to the board. A jagged gasp tore from her throat as her fingers caught on a rotted edge. She froze, trembling, the iron taste of panic sharp on her tongue. The world teetered, silent save for the wild hammering of her heart. A breath. Two. Then, with a surge of strength, she hauled herself up, collapsing onto the windowsill in a tangle of limbs.

Her chest heaved, each breath rasping against her ribs like a trapped bird. Powder stayed there, clutching her knees, eyes squeezed shut as she willed herself to steady. When she finally peeked through the grime-streaked glass, the scene below made her stomach churn.

Vi was in the thick of it, a whirlwind of bruises and fury. Her fists flew in punishing arcs, Vander’s gauntlets gleaming with every bone-crunching strike. The weight of them turned her blows into thunderclaps, shattering Silco’s men with sloppy precision. Powder’s gaze locked onto her sister, and something knotted deep in her chest. She could almost hear Vander’s voice, gravelly with affection, recounting the story of those gauntlets—tools once wielded for mining the fissures alongside his brothers. The memory twisted in her gut, but there was no time to dwell.

Her bag was already in her hands, its clasp slick with sweat as her trembling fingers fumbled it open. Powder’s breath hitched as she drew out a handful of jagged blue crystals, their sinister glimmer catching the dim light like fractured stars. Each shard felt like a live wire, buzzing faintly in her palm. She reached for her wind-up monkey.

Its grin seemed to leer at her, the cymbals gleaming with crudely affixed spikes. Powder’s teeth sank into her lip, the sharp sting grounding her as she pried the toy open. The cavity inside waited, hollow and expectant. One by one, the crystals clinked into place. Her hands shook violently when she tied the final shard around its neck, and for a fleeting, paralyzing moment, doubt clawed at her. If this failed—if she failed—

A roar tore through the air.

Powder startled, her head snapping up just in time to see Deckard charge into the melee. Shimmer had transformed him into a nightmare—a grotesque, hulking mass of distorted muscle, purple flesh, and seething rage. His movements were savage, each swing of his monstrous arms scattering Silco’s goons like broken toys so he could claw his way to Vi. Powder’s throat closed as her gaze darted back to Vi.

Blood streaked her sister’s face, but her eyes burned with determination. Powder could feel Vi’s battle cry in her bones as she clanked the gauntlets together, the sound reverberating through the hollow shell of the cannery. Then she lunged, her fists slicing through the air toward Deckard’s monstrous form.

It happened too fast.

Deckard’s mutated arm whipped out, snaring Vi mid-leap. His fingers closed around her throat, silencing her cry in a strangled choke. Powder’s hands flew to her mouth as she watched Vi claw and pound at his grip, her gauntleted fist useless against the brute’s inhuman strength. With a cruel twist, Deckard flung her like a ragdoll.

Vi hit the walkway with a bone-shaking crash. The impact sent one of the gauntlets skidding across the floor, sparks flying as metal scraped against metal. Powder stifled a sob as she watched her sister drag herself toward the freezer room, her movements slow, agonized.

Inside, Mylo wrestled with the locks binding Vander, curses spilling from his lips. Claggor’s hammer rang out against the crumbling wall, his every strike an echo in the confined space. Powder’s eyes darted back to Vi, her heart splintering as she watched her sister pull herself inside, fingers fumbling with the heavy sliding door.

Deckard was already closing in.

With a desperate heave, Vi slammed the door shut just as he reached it, throwing the latch into place. The room shuddered as Deckard’s massive form collided with the metal. Powder’s breath came in ragged gasps, her fingers spasming.

Her hands moved almost on their own. The monkey. The key. The sharp, mechanical clicks of winding gears became a countdown, each turn a plea, a prayer. Powder pressed her forehead against the cold metal of the toy. Her lips trembled as she whispered, “Please. Just this once. Please work.”

She leaned out the window, heart pounding, and let the monkey fall.

The clang of its landing jolted through her. The cymbals clapped together with eerie cheer, their spiked edges striking the crystal tied to its neck. A faint shimmer of energy rippled outward, drawing Deckard's attention. Powder watched, her breath lodged in her throat, the world narrowing to the toy’s steady march toward Deckard.

Movement flickered in the corner of her vision. Her head whipped around.

Nyra.

Silent as a shadow, Nyra slipped through the freezer’s ceiling hatch, her figure barely more than a whisper against the chaos. Powder’s pulse quickened. She hoped with all her heart that her monkey bomb would work just this once. It was Powder's turn. She would be the one to save them this time. 
---

Nyra dropped into the freezer room with the grace of a cat and the flair of someone who didn’t particularly care they were interrupting chaos. Her boots hit the floor with a soft thud, and she immediately crouched in front of Vander and Mylo, her hands moving in precise, sharp gestures: “Focus.”

“Sweet gears, Echo!” Mylo yelped, leaping back as if she’d just appeared from thin air. His lockpick clattered to the floor.

Nyra sighed—an exasperated puff through her nose—and scooped it up, flicking it back into his fumbling hands. She quirked a brow at him, her look dry as sandpaper. “Am I helping, or are you dropping things for fun?”

Vi, slumped against the rattling door with blood smearing her knuckles, glared at Nyra through her sweat-soaked hair. “Why,” she demanded between heaving breaths, “in the hell are you here? You’re supposed to be locked up in Benzo’s.”

Nyra’s hands moved in quick, sharp motions, her lips pressing into a firm line. “You’re family. Family protects each other. Even when they make stupid decisions.”

Vi snorted, though it sounded more like a wheeze. “You just called me stupid.”

“Accurate,” Nyra signed, smirking. Her shoulder brushed against Vi’s as she crouched next to her, pulling a small, clunky device from her satchel—a prototype incapacitating bomb. A wild mix of Ekko’s peacekeeping tendencies and Powder’s flair for the chaotic, it gleamed in patches where glitter had spilled into its gears. Nyra worked quickly, her fingers dancing over the mechanism. The clink of gears turning felt almost mocking against Deckard’s pounding fists on the other side of the door. She strung it up against the door, rigging it to explode and fill the space with purple glitter and cover the floor with oil, should the door be forcibly opened.

The door bucked. Vi winced. “What’s the plan, genius?”

Nyra bumped her shoulder against Vi’s in response, deliberately playful, though her focus stayed on the bomb. “Buy time. Then make them regret opening this door after we've escaped.”

“It better work,” Vi muttered.

Nyra signed without looking up. “Do I ever make things that don’t work?” Then paused, and shot Vi a pointed side-eye. “Don’t answer that.”

The last click of Vander’s lock brought a sharp breath of relief. Vander surged forward with a grunt, yanking off the heavy locks still dangling from his wrists. Claggor’s triumphant laugh rang out from the far wall, where a gaping hole now yawned through the crumbling bricks. He turned, his broad face streaked with dirt, a hammer slung over his shoulder. “We’re clear! Everyone out!”

Nyra grinned at Vi, the kind of grin that promised we’ve got this, despite the chaos unraveling around them. Vi, slumped against the door, managed the barest tilt of her lips in return, her exhaustion etched deep in the bruises lining her face. Nyra reached out, clasping Vi’s arm firmly to haul her to her feet.

That was when the world exploded. 

The monkey clapped its hands one final time, shattering the already volatile crystals' casing, causing it to go berserk.

The blast hit the door like a sledgehammer, shattering the tenuous calm. The glitter bomb detonated with a thunderous crack, unleashing a kaleidoscope of sparkles and choking purple smoke. But it only served to mask the devastation that followed.

A streak of volatile blue energy shot through the haze, a blur too fast and furious to track. It slammed into the far wall with a deafening roar, sending a cascade of rubble raining down.

Nyra’s eyes snapped wide, her heart stalling in her chest as Claggor was caught in the collapse. He didn’t even have time to scream. A chunk of concrete struck him square in the face, the sickening crunch of bone drowned out by the chaos. His goggles tumbled to the ground, a gift from a friend he now considered a sister, cracked and empty, the last thing left of the boy who had always been their rock.

The air seemed to twist and writhe as another piece of shrapnel—a jagged pipe dislodged from the blast—spiraled through the smoke. It found its target with unerring cruelty, piercing Mylo’s chest with a wet, visceral thud. His body jerked, his mouth opening in a silent gasp as the pipe tore through him and pinned him to the far wall.

Mylo’s trembling hands wrapped around the pipe, his fingers weakly tugging at the metal impaling him. Blood poured from the wound, a dark river staining the grimy floor. His head tilted upward as the ceiling groaned ominously. Dust and debris cascaded from above, and for one agonizing second, Mylo’s wide, confused eyes caught Nyra’s.

Then the ceiling came down, a massive slab of concrete crushing his body with brutal finality. The sound of his skull cracking was mercifully brief, but it shattered something inside Nyra.

Vi was pinned beneath the heavy freezer door, her arms trembling as she pushed against it, her teeth bared in a snarl of sheer effort. She had pushed Nyra out of the falling door's way, hoping she could find refuge from the falling debris. She whimpered, lurching forward despite the weight of the door pressing against her. Tears streamed down her face as she clawed at the ground, her breath cracking with grief as she watched the life leave her friends' eyes.

The room convulsed again, the side wall giving way under the relentless force of the blast. It collapsed in a thunderous heap, slamming onto Vander’s hulking frame and pinning him beneath its weight. His body jerked once, then went still, his face obscured by the swirling dust.

Vi cried out, twisting so she could lay on her stomach, her eyes locked onto the monkey bomb's head, which had landed inside the freezer room after the blast, gleaming ominously in the soft light of the fire burning around them. The realization that her sister might've died in the explosion shattered Vi's already damaged psyche, making her release a hoarse wail.

Nyra stumbled back, her footing slipping on the fractured floor. The ground beneath her cracked and crumbled, her arms pinwheeling as she tried to find balance. But gravity won, and she plunged downward, her body twisting in midair before slamming into the hard pavement below. Pain blossomed in her chest, sharp and immediate, but there was no time to process it.

She tried to push herself up, her limbs trembling as she turned to look back toward the crumbling cannery.

She never saw it coming.

A massive piece of the back wall, dislodged by the explosion, hurtled toward her like a guillotine. It struck her with a bone-shattering impact, driving her to the ground with brutal force.

Nyra’s breath hitched, a wet, rattling sound as her lungs struggled against the weight crushing her chest. Her arms were trapped beneath the rubble, twisted at unnatural angles, her fingers twitching weakly. Blood pooled beneath her, sticky and warm, soaking into the grimy street.

Her vision blurred, the edges darkening as her body screamed for oxygen. She tried to move, to crawl, to do anything, but the weight was too much. Every breath was a shallow, agonizing wheeze, each one dragging her closer to the abyss.

Above her, the cannery groaned and shifted, more debris raining down as the structure threatened to collapse entirely. Through the haze of pain and smoke, Nyra thought she heard Vi’s voice, faint and desperate, calling her nickname.

Family.

The word echoed in her mind, a fragile, flickering spark in the encroaching darkness. Her lips twitched, mouthing the word silently, though no sound escaped. Her battered body refused to obey, but her heart held onto that singular, stubborn truth. 

She held onto her lucidity, hoping to Janna that her friends would wake her up from this nightmare, all alive and well. Unbroken, unhurt. Breathing.
---

Vi’s sobs tore through the suffocating silence, her cheek pressed against the grimy floor beneath the freezer door that pinned her. Tears streamed freely, mixing with the blood trickling from her temple. Her lips quivered as her gaze locked on Vander’s prone form, a desperate, silent plea in her wide, pain-filled eyes.

“Please,” she rasped, her voice barely audible, her shoulder a mangled mess where the door had crushed it. “Vander, please…”

A groan. Faint, but there. Vander stirred, his massive frame twitching against the weight of the rubble. He blinked slowly, dazed, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Then his eyes fell on the carnage around him.

Mylo’s arm jutted grotesquely from beneath the rubble, broken and bloodied, the pale fingers limp in death. Nearby, Claggor’s goggles lay shattered, their once-sturdy frame twisted and smeared with crimson. A thin tuft of brown hair poked out from the wreckage beside them, a reminder of the boy who had been like a second son.

Vander’s breath hitched. His hand trembled as he pushed himself to his knees, his ribs screaming in protest. And then he saw her—Vi, pinned beneath the freezer door, her face twisted in pain as she struggled to move.

“Vi…” The word came out like a broken whisper, a father’s cry of anguish.

Her sobs grew louder as she met his eyes, shaking her head frantically. She choked out a sob, her good arm clawing at the ground as though she could pull herself free.

A growl built in Vander’s chest, low and guttural, fueled by a primal rage and the kind of grief only a parent could know. With a roar that echoed through the crumbling room, he shoved the rubble off his legs and staggered to his feet. Blood dripped from a gash above his brow, streaking down his face, but he didn’t falter.

Silco’s voice carried through the chaos, calm and venomous. “Kill them,” he ordered, a wave of his hand summoning two goons and Deckard toward the freezer room.

Vander saw them coming, his fists curling into meaty hammers at his sides. With a guttural growl, he grabbed two rusted hooks from the floor, holding onto them like the gauntlets he once used to fight his battles. The first goon reached him, swinging wildly, but Vander sidestepped with surprising speed, slamming the hook into the man’s gut and sending him sprawling with one brutal punch. The second didn’t even get a chance to attack; Vander caught him by the collar and smashed him headfirst into the wall, the crunch of bone reverberating through the cavernous room.

And then there was Deckard.

The monstrous brute loomed over Vander, his shimmer-enhanced frame grotesque and unnerving. Vander didn’t wait—he launched himself forward, driving his fists into Deckard’s ribcage with enough force to rattle a lesser man. Each punch landed with a sickening thud, driving Deckard back step by step.

But it wasn’t enough.

Deckard roared, his mutated arm swinging down like a wrecking ball. It caught Vander’s shoulder with devastating precision, dislocating it in a single, brutal hit. Vander staggered, biting back a scream as white-hot pain shot down his arm. Before he could recover, Deckard’s massive hands clamped around his head, the pressure like a vice. The world blurred as Deckard headbutted him, the impact sending stars exploding across Vander’s vision.

With a heaving grunt, Deckard slammed Vander onto the walkway, the metal groaning under the impact. Vander’s body crumpled, but his spirit did not. He forced himself upright, his knees trembling under the strain, and let out a guttural roar of defiance.

But it wasn’t Deckard who struck the next blow.

The knife pierced Vander’s back without warning, the blade sliding between his ribs and lower back with practiced ease. His breath hitched, his head snapping around to see Silco standing behind him, his face a mask of something indescribable.

Vander staggered, but he didn’t fall. He spun, his massive hand wrapping around Silco’s throat. With a snarl, he pulled Silco towards himself, his forehead pressing against his former brother’s. The intensity in Vander’s gaze burned with the fury of a father wronged, a man grieving not just for himself, but for his children.

Silco’s face twisted, not in fear, but in something close to rumination. His eyes betrayed his thoughts - reminders of a past not so different from the scene currently unfolding. He wheezed as Vander’s grip tightened, his hands clawing weakly at Vander’s arm. Silco gasped, his lips curling into a pained frown. 

A fleeting thought crossed Vander’s mind—a memory of Elias, his old friend, cradling his daughter Melodie after an enforcer took her from him hours after the incident. So this is what it feels like to lose everything. To be powerless, unable to turn back time.

The knife plunged into his stomach.

The air left Vander’s lungs in a rush, his grip on Silco faltering. His legs buckled, and Silco shoved him backward with a gasp, rubbing his bruised throat. Vander staggered to the edge of the walkway, blood pooling at his feet.

“I knew you still had it in you,” Silco said softly, shoving Vander with a final, dismissive push.

Vander’s body tumbled over the edge, a soft, squelching noise following the knife leaving his stomach, with him landing on a crate full of shimmer vials with a bone-jarring crash. The glass shattered beneath him, the toxic liquid seeping into the open wounds on his body as he struggled to hold onto his conscience. His fingers softly reached towards a vial of shimmer, each movement causing him immense pain and forcing soft whimpers to leave his chapped lips.

Above, Vi’s quiet groans of pain filled the space as she tried to wiggle herself out from underneath the door, her lower body pinned to the ground.

Silco’s voice cut through the haze like the crack of a whip. “Find the girl.”

Deckard’s hulking form obeyed immediately, his movements jerky, his breaths wet and guttural as he shambled toward the freezer room. His mutated frame cast grotesque shadows against the flickering light, and inhuman sounds escaped his parted lips—growls, clicks, and something that might have been a snarl. His twitching eyes locked on Vi, crumpled and pinned beneath the freezer door, her chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths.

Vi whimpered, her good arm feebly pushing at the door as Deckard loomed over her. Without effort, he gripped the metal slab and flung it aside, the sound of it crashing against the wall echoing ominously. Vi’s terrified gaze met his as he raised his fist, the shimmer mutating it into a monstrous, gnarled weapon.

She braced herself.

A deafening clang reverberated through the cannery, freezing Deckard mid-motion. His head snapped behind, twitching violently as he searched for the source of the sound. From the shadows below, a figure emerged—a hulking, grotesque form that barely resembled the man it had been. Vander, mutated beyond recognition, scaled the crumbling walls with unnerving ease. His glowing eyes burned with rage and pain, his disfigured hands clenching into fists.

Before Deckard could react, Vander lunged, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him against the wall with bone-shattering force. The impact echoed like thunder, and Deckard went limp, his mutated form crumpling to the ground like a discarded puppet.

Vander turned toward Vi, his enormous chest heaving. Her wide, tear-streaked eyes locked with his, and for a moment, he froze. Her expression—a mixture of terror, grief, and recognition—sent a sharp, agonizing throb through his monstrous head. He clutched at his temples, stumbling back with a guttural groan, as if trying to claw his way back to himself. He noticed Silco in the distance, so small and insignificant in comparison to the horrors he unleashed on Vander's family.

“SILCO!” His voice, warped and monstrous, tore through the cannery like a beast’s roar.

Silco took a cautious step backward, his calm façade cracking ever so slightly as he disappeared into the swirling dust left by the explosion.

Vander’s rage burned hot, but a rumble from behind snapped him back. His monstrous head whipped around to see debris shifting, the crumbling ceiling giving way to fire and rubble above Vi. Her injured form lay in its shadow, the massive debris seconds away from crushing her entirely.

There was no decision to make.

Vander roared, charging toward her like a force of nature. He scooped her up, cradling her in his massive arms as he sprinted for the jagged hole in the wall. The building groaned and screamed as another explosion rippled through it, hurling them both into the open air. Vander twisted mid-fall, shielding Vi with his body as they plummeted to the ground.

They landed with a sickening thud, the impact sending a plume of dust and ash into the night sky.

Vi groaned, her face pressing against the warm, bloodied chest beneath her. “Vander?” she whispered, her voice breaking as she scrambled upright. Her good arm cradled his face, her trembling fingers brushing away the grime and blood. Tears streaked her dirty cheeks as they dripped onto Vander’s still features.

“Dad, wake up. Please. Please!” Her voice cracked, raw and desperate.

Vander’s eyes fluttered open, the fluorescent pink light in them dimming fast. His massive hand weakly rose, brushing her cheek. “Protect… Powder,” he rasped, his voice barely audible.

The last of the light left his eyes.

Vi’s anguished wail shattered the night.

---

For a long moment, she cradled him, her body wracked with sobs. When she finally moved, it was slow and reluctant, her face streaked with fresh tears as she gently laid Vander down. Her ears twitched at a faint rustling nearby.

“Hello?” she croaked, her voice thick with grief.

The sound came again—a soft shift of rubble. Her heart sank as her eyes landed on Nyra. The girl’s body was pinned beneath heavy slabs of debris, a few paces away, her arms crushed beyond recognition. Only her face was visible, sickly pale, and streaked with blood. Each shallow breath came with a wet, rattling sound that Vi recognized all too well—punctured lungs.

“No,” Vi whispered, stumbling forward. She collapsed beside Nyra, her trembling hand brushing the blood-matted hair from her face. “No, no, no. You’re okay, Little Mouse. You’re gonna be okay.”

Nyra’s lips twitched, a faint smile ghosting across them. She tried moving her arms to sign, but she realized that, in a cruel twist of fate, her voice had been taken away from her for the second time.  She instead slowly licked her lips and mouthed the words, “Be safe, Brute.”

Vi choked on a sob, shaking her head frantically. “Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t say goodbye.” Her tears dripped onto Nyra’s face as she cupped her cheek. “You hear me? I haven’t even told you my name yet. You—you earned it, okay? Remember that time I said you had to earn it? I thought you were a scared little mouse, but—”

She froze. Nyra’s eyes had gone still, the faint smile frozen on her lifeless face.

Vi’s hand faltered, hovering over Nyra’s hair before she crumpled completely, her shoulders shaking with sobs. She clutched at Nyra’s face, her voice a broken whisper. “It's Violet. Vi. I told you my name. You earned it, Little Mouse. You earned it…”

Her voice broke into a scream as she pressed her forehead against Nyra’s, her tears soaking her bloodied face. She shook Nyra gently, as if willing her to wake. “Please, Little Mouse. Please. You can’t leave me. You earned it. You earned it, okay? Little Mouse, wake up.”

But the only response was silence.

---

The air was thick with smoke and dust, every breath catching in Powder’s throat as she stumbled through the rubble-strewn alley. Her heart pounded against her ribs, each step an effort as she rounded the corner of the old cannery. Her mind buzzed with excitement, barely noticing the destruction surrounding her.

It worked.

Her monkey bomb had worked.

Powder could finally work on projects with Nyra and Ekko without holding them back.

She hurried forward, the remnants of her grin still lingering as her voice rang out, unsteady and trembling with pride. “Vi, it worked! Did you see me? My monkey bomb finally worked!”

Her words echoed into the eerie quiet, and it was only then she noticed her sister.

Vi was on her knees, cradling Vander’s massive hand in hers, the gauntlet removed and discarded in the dirt. Her other hand gently stroked Nyra’s blood-matted hair, her lips moving in whispered pleas. Powder froze as Vi’s weary, tear-streaked face turned toward her, her expression an unreadable mix of confusion, pain, and disbelief.

“What?” Vi rasped, her voice hoarse.

Powder took another step forward, her grin faltering. “Did you see? I did it! I saved you!”

Vi’s gaze swept across the devastation—the collapsed walls, the bodies half-buried in debris. Vander’s lifeless form. Nyra, her face streaked with soot, unmoving. The gauntlet that had slipped from her arm. Her trembling hand gestured to it all, her voice meek and hollow.

“You did this?”

Powder blinked, confused, her smile faltering. “What?” Her eyes followed Vi’s gesture, landing on Nyra’s still form and Vander’s body. When it finally registered that the things Vi was hanging onto for dear life weren't just debris, but her family, a sharp gasp tore from her throat. “No, no! I didn’t— I was saving you!”

Her voice cracked, rising in desperation as she wrung her hands together, fingers twitching anxiously. “I just wanted to help!” Her knees wobbled, the weight of Vi’s stare bearing down on her, cutting through her frantic thoughts like a knife. “I only wanted to help…”

Vi rose slowly, unsteady but with a growing fire in her eyes. She whispered, almost to herself, “I told you to stay away.”

Powder’s heart cracked at the words, her chest tightening as she whimpered, “Please, Vi, please. I only wanted to help. I only wanted to help. I only wanted to help. I ONLY WANTED TO—”

"I told you to stay away!" The slap came like a lightning bolt, sharp and stinging. Powder staggered back, clutching her cheek, her legs giving way as she crumpled to the ground. Tears poured freely now, her sobs loud and jagged as she clutched at the dirt.

“Why?” she wailed, her voice piercing. “Why did you leave me?!”

Vi crouched, her face inches from Powder’s. Her uninjured hand shot out, grabbing Powder’s face, her fingers pressing into her cheeks with a painful force. Her voice trembled, anger and despair blending into something almost unrecognizable.

“Because you’re a jinx. Do you hear me?!” She tightened her grip as Powder whimpered, shaking her head frantically. “Mylo was right.”

“No… no, Violet, please. Please…” Powder begged, her small hands clutching Vi’s wrist, her voice breaking as her cries became frantic.

Vi’s expression shifted, her rage cracking to reveal guilt, horror at her own words. She let go abruptly, stumbling backward and staring at her trembling hand. A sharp gasp escaped her as she stepped away, retreating toward the alley’s mouth.

“Vi!” Powder screamed, crawling after her. Her cries echoed through the rain as her sister sank to her knees at the alley’s edge, away from Powder's eyesight, her head bowed, hands clutching her ribs.

“Vi, come back! Please! I need you! Violet!” Powder’s voice broke, her throat raw as she sobbed, the rain mingling with her tears.

It was then the shadows shifted.

From the corner of the alley, a figure emerged, cutting through the haze like a specter. Silco’s knife glinted in the dim light, still slick with Vander’s blood. Powder barely registered his approach until he stood over her, his presence towering and suffocating.

Vi drew in a shuddering breath and gingerly touched her ribs. She turned her head and saw the figure looming over Powder, the man who took her family away. She scrambled to her feet, shouting Powder's name, when an arm hooked around her waist. A cloth was clamped over her mouth, the sharp, acrid scent burning her nostrils.

“Mmf—!” Vi thrashed, her good arm flailing as she clawed at the hand pressing the cloth into her face.

“Shh,” a voice whispered harshly in her ear. “He’ll kill you if he hears you.”

The voice belonged to Grayson's corrupt second in command - Marcus.

The world blurred around Vi as her limbs went heavy, the pain in her ribs dulling into a faraway throb. Her knees buckled, but Marcus held her firm, dragging her backward into the shadows of the alley.

“Come on,” Marcus muttered under his breath, his tone tight with urgency. “Let’s go.”

Vi’s head lolled to the side as consciousness slipped away. Her last sight was of Powder, small and trembling in the rain, as Silco stood over her in the darkness, his blade glinting in the firelight.

Powder's sobs quieted into hiccupping breaths as she looked up at Silco.

“Hello, little girl,” Silco said, his voice low, calm. He crouched in front of her, his knife clinking softly against the ground as he set it aside.

“Where’s your sister?” he asked, his tone deceptively gentle.

Powder’s small form trembled as she suddenly lunged forward, throwing herself into his chest. She clung to him tightly, her thin arms wrapping around his waist like a lifeline. “She left me,” she whispered again, her voice small and fragile. Her hands fisted against his back, her voice hollow and broken. “She’s NOT my sister anymore.”

Silco stiffened for a beat, then his hand slowly came to rest on her back. He pulled her close, his grip firm but almost… tender. Behind him, his men stood silently, watching the scene with unease. For a moment, Silco said nothing, his mismatched eyes scanning the destruction around them. His gaze lingered on Vander’s body, a flicker of something unspoken flashing across his face—pain, memory, revenge. Recognition. 

“It’s okay,” Silco murmured, his voice soft, yet resolute. “We’ll show them.”

Powder sniffled, her head burrowed into his chest as his words wrapped around her like a cold promise.

“We will show them all,” he said.

And as the storm raged on, Silco cradled Powder in his arms, her sobs fading into shuddering breaths. When her body finally went limp, exhaustion pulling her into restless sleep, he stood, lifting her with care.

---

Grudge's mind raced with ways he could apologize to Nyra for snapping at her, for ways he could explain to her why he was so worried about her, as he trudged through the winding alleys of the Undercity, his large hands balancing a sack of provisions over one shoulder. The other hand swung a smaller bag at his side, filled with snacks Nyra loved—candied figs and a loaf of sweet bread glazed with syrup. He knew that it was a cheap trick to get her to forgive him, but he would use anything in his arsenal to be in her good graces again - time was of the essence, and they needed to pack their things and leave as soon as possible.

He walked along the winding path to their small home, the wooden door hanging crooked on its hinges, the Dredge looming in the background.

“Pack your stuff, little rat,” he bellowed as he nudged the door open with his foot. “We’re going on a… little vacation!”

His gruff voice echoed through the empty room, bouncing off the bare walls and scattering the stillness like dry leaves. His breath stuttered as he stepped inside, the quiet seeping into his bones.

The one-room house was as it always was—cramped, messy, mainly due to Nyra's various knick-knacks which she gathered during the past 5 years that she spent with him, and dimly lit by a single oil lamp on the table. But Nyra wasn’t there.

“Nyra?”

The sack slid from his shoulder, thudding onto the floor as his gaze darted around the room. He frowned, his eyes snagging on something out of place—a scrap of paper sitting on the rickety wooden table.

His boots scraped the floor as he crossed the room in two hurried strides, snatching up the note. His calloused fingers crumpled the edges as he held it, the faint, familiar handwriting making his stomach churn. Even the hastily scribbled gangster chicken couldn't make him smile secretly to himself like he used to.

Grudge read the note quickly, his eyes darting over the words. With each line, his grip on the paper tightened, the veins on the back of his hands bulging.

“No, no, no,” he muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with panic. He dropped the note, and it fluttered to the ground as he spun around.

The bag of snacks toppled from the table, the bread rolling onto the floor, forgotten.

“If she’s out there…” he whispered, his voice low and grave, “the enforcers—”

The words died on his lips as he pushed through the door and into the night.

---

The Last Drop loomed ahead, its flickering neon sign casting erratic shadows against the grime-covered buildings. Grudge barreled through the doors, his large frame slamming against them with a force that made the stacked chairs and tables shake.

He scanned the dimly lit bar, his sharp eyes darting to the hallway leading to the children's room. With a silent plea, he rushed towards it, slamming the door open, uncaring whether anyone was asleep or not. It was empty.

“Where is she?” he growled to no one in particular, his deep voice reverberating through the room.

Grudge’s heart pounded in his chest, a cold sweat gathering at his temples. He turned and bolted back out into the streets, his uneven gait making his steps land heavy on the cobblestones.
---

The street in front of Benzo’s shop was quiet, too quiet. The faint smell of blood and gunpowder reached him before the sight did.

Grudge skidded to a halt, his boots scraping against the ground as his eyes landed on the carnage. Benzo’s mangled body lay crumpled on the floor, Grayson’s lifeless form slumped nearby.

He stumbled forward, Nyra's face flashing in his face, his mind sending silent pleas to Janna for the child to be safe. His hands hovered uselessly over the wreckage, unsure of where to land.

The acrid scent of blood filled his nostrils as his gaze swept over the devastation, and panic clawed at his chest. His fists clenched tightly at his sides as his breathing grew ragged, his mind racing.

Then, in the distance, a deafening boom.

Grudge turned sharply, his eyes snapping to the horizon. A plume of smoke and flames rose into the night sky, the explosion’s shockwave rattling the bloody windows of Benzo’s shop.

“The old cannery,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the ringing in his ears.

His jaw set in determination, his legs moving before his mind caught up. He ran toward the explosion, each labored step carrying him closer to the source of the chaos. His left leg dragged slightly with every stride, the old injury, which was hard to notice before if one didn't pay attention, slowing him but not stopping him.

“Hold on, Nyra,” he growled under his breath, his teeth clenched as he pushed himself harder. “You’d better be alive or so help me Janna I will wrangle you back to life from the depths of hell and fight Kindred themselves if I have to.”

The cannery grew closer with every pounding step, the rising flames painting the dark streets in hues of orange and red. Grudge’s heart pounded louder than the echo of his boots, louder than the ringing in his ears, louder than the roar of the fire ahead.

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

---

Grudge stumbled into the shattered remains of the cannery, the air heavy with smoke and the acrid tang of spilled chemicals. Chemicals he had helped create. For the children of the Undercity. For the nation of Zaun. His chest heaved, his uneven gait dragging him forward as his sharp eyes scanned the rubble, the orange glow of distant flames casting ominous shadows on every jagged piece of debris.

Then he saw her.

Nyra lay pinned beneath the debris, her small frame mangled and lifeless. Her once-bright eyes stared out blankly, her hands crushed, unable to speak.

Grudge froze, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, time seemed to still. He stumbled forward, his knees giving out as he crumpled to the ground beside her, his large hands trembling as they reached toward her fragile body.

“No... No, no, no,” he whispered hoarsely, the words tumbling from his lips like a prayer.

The air felt heavier now, pressing down on him with unbearable weight. His hands hovered over her before curling into fists, clawing at the ground in impotent rage. He pulled on his hair, ripping out pieces of it in the process, his parted lips releasing a pained wail.

The child he'd saved.

The child he'd tried so hard not to love, knowing that he wasn't long for this world, knowing that his work was something that would put her in harm's way.

The child who he had unwillingly grown to love in the end, the girl who brought some light into a broken old man's life.

“My daughter,” he rasped, his voice breaking, his hands gently pushing the rubble off of her as his mind reeled. In trying to save Grudge- no, Elias, from the grief it was experiencing, his mind thrust him back into worse days. The memory hit him like a tidal wave, slamming him into a moment long past—a time when hope still lingered in the dark corners of the Undercity.

---

In a hidden hideout beneath the Undercity's twisted alleys, Grudge sat at a rickety table surrounded by Vander and Silco. The three of them leaned over a crude map of Piltover’s bridge, their voices low but intense as they discussed their plans.

Grudge absentmindedly twirled a vial of glowing green liquid between his fingers. Potions, infused with the faint spark of his magic, magic for which he had to flee his home before he was old enough to speak, lined his bandolier. These were his contributions to the cause, the secret weapon of the revolution: enhancements for their allies, healing elixirs for the injured, and debilitating concoctions for their enemies.

But his attention wavered, his gaze drifting to the edge of the table where a small painting rested—a snapshot of his daughter, Melodie, her gap-toothed grin and soft, billowing curls lighting up the frame.

A soft chuckle brought him back. Vander, sitting across from him, leaned forward with a grin. He tapped the painting and signed, "How’s the little rascal?"

Grudge rolled his eyes, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “A muscleheaded brute like you signing is so uncanny,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Vander laughed, clinking his mug of ale against the edge of the table. “What can I say? I’d do anything for the lil’ kiddo. What's yours is ours too, old coot.”

Beside him, Silco smirked, his pale hands moving gracefully as he signed, "I second that notion."

Grudge chuckled, his gruff exterior softening for a brief moment. Vander teased him relentlessly, prodding at his affection with brotherly jests, while Silco merely sipped his drink, his sharp eyes crinkling with rare amusement.

They toasted, cups raised high.

“To the ankle-biters of the Undercity,” Vander proclaimed, “and the world they’ll build when we win.”

Grudge tilted his head back, letting the taste of ale linger on his tongue as hope swelled in his chest.

---

Grudge clutched his head as another memory violently washed over him, his eyes darting to Nyra's unnaturally bent neck and shoulders. 

---

He burst through the smoke-filled streets of the Undercity, his lungs burning as he neared his old home. Flames licked at the edges of the building, the acrid smell of charred wood and flesh choking him. He ripped off his coat, holding it over his nose as he crashed through the doorway.

“Melodie!” he shouted, his voice raw with terror.

Inside, the world was hell. The air was thick with heat and ash, blinding him as he stumbled through the burning wreckage. Then he saw her—his daughter’s small body curled in the center of the room, her skin blistered and blackened. Her hair, charred to the point of becoming hard to distinguish between soot and broken glass.

“No,” he whispered, his knees buckling beneath him as he knelt beside her.

He reached out with trembling hands, his fingers flinching as they met her charred flesh. Tears streamed down his soot-covered face as he gently peeled her from the floor, her skin sticking to the ground with a sickeningly wet sound.

Grudge carried her outside, laying her carefully on his coat. His hands scrambled at the bandolier strapped to his chest, pulling out vials of glowing liquid. The magic within them pulsed faintly as he kissed each one, infusing them with as much of his life force as he could. He knew it would leave him with less than ten years remaining, but at that moment, he didn't care.

“Please,” he murmured, tipping the potions into her cracked lips. “Please, please, please…”

For a moment, she coughed, her fragile body convulsing as life seemed to flicker within her. His heart soared as her small hand reached up, brushing against his nose like she used to when she was a toddler.

But then her breathing slowed, her battered chest stilling.

“I love you, Pa,” she signed weakly, her face contorted in pain before the light left her eyes once again.

Grudge’s scream tore through the Undercity, raw and guttural, shaking the ground beneath him. He pounded his fists against his chest, his cries reverberating through the air as his grief consumed him.

---

Grudge gasped as the memory shattered, his mind yanked back to the present. He clutched at his chest, the pain of his old loss merging with the unbearable sight before him. Nyra, gone. His little rat. The pain in his ass that seemed so much like him in the past - so very defiant and full of fire.

He remained frozen, kneeling beside Nyra’s crushed body. His trembling hands hovered over her lifeless form before they slammed down into the dirt. He let out a guttural, heart-wrenching sob, shaking his head as if trying to will the scene away.

“No... no,” he murmured. He clasped his face in his hands, the heels of his palms pressing into his eyes as if to block out her lifeless stare. “I can’t... I can’t look. Not again.”

Shadows stretched long against the smoke-lit ground. A deeper shadow fell over him. Grudge slowly dropped his hands, his blurred vision clearing to see Silco standing just a few feet away, his crimson eye piercing through the haze, a sleeping Powder cradled in his arms.

Silco shifted slightly, his hand brushing gently across Powder’s hair. The girl was limp in his grasp, her small body slumped over from exhaustion. Silco carefully handed her off to one of his goons, nodding curtly.

“Take her somewhere safe,” Silco ordered, his voice low but commanding.

Grudge’s gaze flickered between Powder, Silco, and Nyra’s crumpled body. Something snapped inside him. He lurched to his feet, his towering frame unsteady but brimming with barely restrained fury.

“This wasn’t the deal!” he roared, his voice booming in the stillness. His breath came in sharp gasps as he jabbed a finger toward Silco. “The kids were supposed to live! All of them! Nyra was supposed to survive!”

Silco didn’t flinch, his gaze steady and unyielding.

“There would be no casualties,” Grudge continued, his voice cracking. “That’s what we agreed on. No children. Just revenge. Revenge on Piltover! The nation of Zaun, a safe haven for the people of the Undercity! You promised!”

Silco straightened, his face betraying no emotion save for a faint coldness at the edges of his mouth. “Trust in promises is but a fool's mistake,” he said evenly, his tone flat and unrepentant. “Casualties are necessary in war. Necessary in victory.”

Grudge’s chest heaved, his fists clenching so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, drawing blood. His voice cracked, a guttural mix of anguish and rage.

"She lost her life because of me,” he snarled, tears streaming down his soot-streaked face. “Because I dared to believe in your empty promises. And now she’s gone. Another daughter ripped from my grasp.” He took a step forward, his voice growing louder, more desperate. “I won’t let you do this to anyone else, Silco. No more fathers losing their children because of you!”

With a raw, animalistic roar, Grudge charged. His massive frame barreled toward Silco, arms outstretched, intent on tackling him to the ground.

Silco stepped back in alarm, his expression briefly betraying surprise. Before he could react further, the sharp crack of a gunshot split the air.

Grudge stopped mid-stride, his body jolting as the bullet struck dead center between his eyes. Time seemed to freeze. His mouth hung open, his eyes unfocused as his towering frame wavered. Blood trickled down his forehead, a single rivulet tracing the curve of his nose before dripping onto the dirt.

His knees buckled, and he collapsed heavily to the ground.

In the split second that it took his brain to stop working, Grudge’s mind conjured a fleeting image. In a place bathed in soft, golden light, he stood upright, his two daughters at his sides. Melodie’s small hand gripped his left, Nyra’s clutching his right. Both girls beamed up at him, their laughter chiming like bells in his ears. No longer silent. No longer ripped from his grasp by death.

He smiled—a genuine, peaceful smile—as they led him forward into the light.

Then, the world went silent, the syrup-covered bread back in the house he considered his safe haven starting to go stale.

---

Silco exhaled sharply, his breaths ragged as the adrenaline coursing through him began to ebb. He nodded to the goon who had fired the shot, giving a subtle signal of approval before slicking his hair back with trembling fingers. His shoulders rose and fell as he tried to steady himself, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like the debris scattered around the cannery.

He stood there in silence for a moment, gazing over the wreckage and the bodies it had claimed. Slowly, his crimson eye drifted to Nyra’s broken form beneath the rubble. Her limbs jutted at unnatural angles, her face obscured by a piece of rubble that had fallen next to her head postmortem.

Silco’s jaw tightened. “Lock,” he called, his voice low but firm.

A hulking figure emerged from the shadows—Lock, a tattooed man whose muscular frame seemed built for moving mountains. He approached Silco, awaiting orders.

“Clear the rubble,” Silco instructed, gesturing toward Nyra. “The doctor needs fresh cadavers for his work. Take her—and any other body you can find that can be easily collected.”

Lock grunted in acknowledgment and immediately set to work. With deliberate force, he heaved the debris off Nyra, the broken wood and crumbling rock groaning as it shifted. When he finally uncovered her, he hesitated briefly, his brow furrowing as he took in her mangled form.

“Now, Lock,” Silco urged, his voice sharp.

Lock crouched, lifting Nyra’s body carefully but without ceremony. Her lifeless form dangled in his massive arms, her head lolling to one side, the weight of death making her seem even smaller.

Silco watched as Lock carried her away, her body swinging slightly with each heavy step. He allowed himself a long, slow exhale before straightening his lapels, brushing away dust that clung to his tailored coat.

His gaze flickered to Vander’s and Grudge’s lifeless bodies, lying just feet apart. There was a strange stillness in the air, the kind that came with the end of something monumental. Silco’s expression hardened, though there was the faintest glimmer of something in his crimson eye—remorse, or perhaps just the acknowledgment of history.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and the two men who had once been his brothers in arms.

“Farewell, old friends,” he murmured softly, his voice tinged with finality. He pressed a fist over his chest, saluting them as he whispered his next words, opening a flask with old whiskey in it and spilling it on the ground: “Blisters and Bedrock.”

Silco lingered for a moment longer, his hand dropping to his side. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away from the ruins of the cannery.

Chapter Text

Lamb, tell me a story.

There was once a pale man with dark hair who was very lonely.

Why was it lonely?

All things must meet this man, so they shunned him.

Did he chase them all?

He took an axe and split himself in two right down the middle.

So he would always have a friend?

So he would always have a friend.

A soft rustling surrounded them, a sound that seemed to echo within itself, hushed and endless. Their eyes fluttered open to the sight of golden rye swaying lazily above, the stalks bending and rising as though breathing in unison. The air carried the faintest scent of earth, cool and crisp, tinged with something unfamiliar.

The sky stretched out in every direction, an endless expanse of muted hues. It wasn’t day, nor was it night—an in-between that left them feeling unmoored. There was no sun to warm their face, no moon to guide their gaze, only a strange light that bathed the world in soft, dreamlike clarity.

They blinked slowly, the world coming into sharper focus as they shifted. The rye parted around them, whispering against their clothes, or was it their skin, as they sat up. For a moment, they stared ahead, the vast field stretching endlessly into the horizon.

Where am I?

Their hands came into view, resting loosely on their knees. They turned them over, examining their palms, the way the skin caught the ethereal light. Ordinary hands, yet something about them was wrong—too smooth, too unmarked.

No scars.

No wrinkles.

No signs of use or age.

They rubbed their fingertips together, half-expecting to feel something different, but their skin was soft, unremarkable, and unfamiliar. A strange unease coiled in their chest as they stared.

These don’t look like my hands… Do they?

Their thoughts offered no answers, only silence. Slowly, they pushed themselves to their feet, brushing loose stalks of rye from their clothing. Their movements felt light, effortless, as though their body carried no weight.

They turned in a slow circle, taking in the endless expanse of the field. The rye swayed gently as far as the eye could see, bending under a breeze that didn’t seem to touch their skin.

A frown tugged at their lips.

"Hello?" Their voice felt odd, unfamiliar, and too loud against the quiet hum of the world. The sound didn’t echo; it simply dissipated into the stillness.

No response came.

What happened to me?

They began to walk, their steps parting the golden stalks, which closed gently behind them as if erasing their presence. Each movement was deliberate, their body moving as if on autopilot while their mind reeled.

Did I fall? Hit my head?

The idea of amnesia clawed its way into their thoughts. It was a rational explanation for the blank space in their mind, but it didn’t sit right.

I should feel… something.

But there was no pain. No dull ache in their skull, no soreness in their body. Only this hollow, persistent quiet pressed against their thoughts like a shroud.

The field stretched on, a golden ocean under a sky that never changed. They couldn’t tell how long they walked—time seemed to blur, slipping through their fingers like sand. Their thoughts circled endlessly, searching for something familiar to grasp onto.

Nothing came.

No name.

No memory.

Only questions that left a faint, sour taste at the back of their throat.

Finally, the rye began to thin. Their steps slowed as they caught sight of something different ahead—a break in the sea of gold. It was a forest, its trees stark and pale against the dim light. It had appeared from thin air, beckoning, whispering.

The trees were unnervingly tall, their trunks thin and smooth like ivory, reaching high into the sky. Their branches swayed gently, though the air remained still around them. A sense of unease prickled at the back of their neck as they approached.

They paused at the forest's edge, glancing back at the vast field. The rye rippled softly, oblivious to their hesitation.

With a reluctant last look at the rye field, they stepped into the forest.

The air shifted immediately. It was cooler here, heavier, carrying an almost imperceptible hum. The ground beneath their bare feet was soft, covered in a moss that muffled their steps.

The trees closed in around them, their pale trunks gleaming faintly. They wandered forward, the forest swallowing them whole, the stillness pressing down on their senses.

What is this place?

The question hung unanswered as they walked. No birds called, no insects buzzed—only the faint creak of the swaying branches accompanied them.

The sound was rhythmic, hypnotic.

Eventually, they came upon a clearing.

It was small and unnaturally symmetrical, as if carved out by something meticulous. The ground was bare here, the moss giving way to dirt, and at its center lay a symbol—a perfect circle drawn in dark, sharp lines, curving both inward and outward in swirling strokes, with angular marks radiating outward like fractured spokes.

They stared at it, their brow furrowing. Something about the design tugged at their thoughts, but no memory surfaced to explain why.

They crouched beside it, their fingers hovering just above the markings. The faint hum of the forest grew louder as they neared, as though the symbol itself was alive, thrumming with quiet energy.

With a sigh, they leaned back against a tree, their head resting against its smooth bark. They squeezed their eyes shut and let their thoughts spiral.

Who am I?

The question was a whisper, a desperate plea that echoed in the hollow space of their mind.

Then, a flicker of movement made the hairs on their arms stand up in alarm.

They froze, their thoughts coming to a halt, and their eyes snapped open.

Something dark and formless darted through the trees, vanishing as quickly as it appeared.

They shot to their feet, their heart pounding. Their eyes scanned the treeline, searching for the source, but the forest was as still as ever.

"Hello?" they called out, their voice trembling slightly.

Nothing.

Their shoulders sagged as they exhaled, their gaze falling once more to the strange symbol in the dirt.

What does it mean?

Shaking their head, they turned away, the forest once again closing in around them.

They walked until the pale trees began to thin, their endless spindles giving way to open space. The forest exhaled its grasp on them, and they emerged into a quiet clearing.

Before them stretched a pond, its surface smooth and still as glass, reflecting the muted sky above. At its center, a sliver of light caught their attention—a perfect half moon, glowing faintly in the water’s depths.

They frowned, their gaze flicking up to the sky.

Nothing.

No moon hung above, no stars broke the expanse of muted gray, only the endless, featureless void. Their brow furrowed as they glanced back down at the pond. The reflection of the half moon remained, steady and bright, as if it belonged to another world entirely.

A creeping unease prickled along their spine.

Their feet remained rooted to the edge of the treeline, the pond just a dozen steps away. Yet something about it felt… wrong. The light seemed too sharp, too vivid for the muted landscape surrounding it. They swallowed hard, their lips pressing into a thin line.

Why am I afraid?

The thought coiled in their mind, unbidden and unwelcome. It didn’t make sense. The pond was just water—a still surface that didn’t stir.

But they didn’t move.

A flicker of movement caught the corner of their eye.

Their head snapped to the side, their body tensing as they stared into the treeline. The forest loomed silently, its pale branches swaying faintly in the phantom wind.

"Who's there?" they called out, their voice sharper than intended, the sound swallowed by the oppressive quiet.

Nothing.

Only the trees, standing like watchful sentinels, offering no answers.

Their hands curled into fists at their sides, their gaze darting between the shadows. For a moment, they thought they caught it again—a brief, dark shape slipping between the trunks—but when they blinked, it was gone.

Their chest heaved with the effort of panic they didn’t fully understand. They stumbled back a step, their foot catching on the uneven ground. The pond shimmered in the corner of their vision, its reflection of the moon unchanging.

Every nerve in their body screamed at them to run, to flee this place, but their legs refused to obey. Their eyes stayed locked on the treeline, scanning every inch, waiting for the next flicker of movement.

What is this place?

Their mind screamed for answers, but the silence pressed down like a weight, suffocating and relentless.

---

They circled the pond endlessly, their path worn, but leaving no traces into the earth by steps that neither faltered nor hesitated. The reflection of the half moon mocked them in its unchanging stillness, calling to them with an allure they couldn’t understand but refused to entertain.

Each time they drew near its edge, a deep, bone-chilling dread stopped them cold. It wasn’t just the fear of what they might see—something about the pond felt alive, watching, waiting. Something they couldn't explain.

So, they walked.

The passing of time became meaningless, the sky above never shifting, the forest standing as a silent witness to their aimless wandering. Their stomach never growled, their limbs never ached, and sleep never came. Yet, they felt exhausted in a way that transcended the physical—drained by the endless questions hammering at their mind, demanding answers that refused to form.

Who am I?

The thought plagued them, a constant echo. No matter how hard they tried, their memories remained an impenetrable fog.

As they circled the pond, they noticed it—the shadows. They'd returned.

At first, they thought it was their imagination again. A flicker of white, a streak of black, darting between the pale trees. But the pattern repeated, always at the edges of their vision. Whenever they turned to catch a glimpse, they saw nothing.

It became a cruel dance, their tormentors never revealing themselves.

The shadows moved with a rhythm they couldn’t discern, weaving through the trunks as though the forest were their domain. The more they noticed them, the harder it became to ignore the sensation of being watched. It pressed on their back, their neck, their chest.

Yet nothing came.

They stopped reacting to the shadows after what felt like a lifetime. No amount of searching brought answers, and they felt too worn to keep trying. If whatever lurked in the forest meant them harm, surely it would have done so by now.

Instead, they focused on the pond.

It pulled at them, a tether invisible but unrelenting. Every attempt to leave the clearing ended in failure—something deep within them wouldn’t allow it.

So, they remained, pacing the pond's perimeter like a caged animal.

Their thoughts spun in circles, just as their feet did. Why can’t I leave? Why don’t I hunger? Why don’t I tire? The questions piled up like stones, heavy and suffocating.

And then, after what felt like years, a sound broke the oppressive quiet.

A faint rustle came from the forest.

It was different this time, not the silent flicker of shadows but something tangible—a branch bending, leaves brushing together.

They didn’t turn to look.

Their shoulders sagged slightly, their lips twisting into a bitter, tired line.

"If you wanted to hurt me, you’d have done it already," they murmured aloud, their voice hoarse from disuse.

The rustling grew louder, and then it appeared—a shadowy form materializing at the edge of their vision. They turned their head sharply, their chest tightening with a sharp pang of fear.

It was a creature unlike anything they had ever seen. Its form was a swirling mass of black smoke, yet it held the distinct shape of a wolf. Sharp ears, a jagged tail, and glowing eyes burned through the darkness, its presence both intangible and unbearably solid.

Its face, if it could be called that, bore a mask—a crude, ominous carving of a wolf’s visage, its whiteness stark against its body, its hollow eyes staring straight into theirs.

“You’ve wandered for so long,” it rumbled, its voice low and guttural, each word weighted and primal. “Half of the fun of the chase... is the watching.”

The words were as much a growl as they were a sentence, and they clawed at their chest.

Their body jolted as if electrified, and they pressed themselves against the bark of the nearest tree, their gaze locked onto the being.

What is this thing?

Before they could even attempt to speak, it tilted its head, ears flicking as though catching a distant sound.

“Lamb,” it whispered, the word dripping from its maw like venom. “Tell me a story.”

A whisper of movement followed, soft and deliberate, and they turned their head, feeling their chest sink with dread.

Another figure emerged from the trees, pale and lithe, its form a stark contrast to the wolf’s dark presence.

The new arrival moved with unnerving grace, a humanoid shape that seemed more a suggestion than a reality. White fur coated its slim body, and in its hands, it held a bow of delicate construction. No quiver adorned its back, and yet its presence felt as though it could strike at any moment.

The creature’s face was hidden behind a black mask— carved out of a material unknown to man, smooth and serene, its expression one of eternal calm.

The lamb tilted its head, its voice soft and cryptic, a whisper that threaded through the air like a sigh.

“What story would you like to hear, Wolf?”

The wolf’s eyes glowed brighter, and it chuckled, a sound like a rumble of thunder in the distance. 

“The story of the child who refuses to die.”

Something inside them snapped.

Without a word, without thought, their legs carried them forward. Terror gripped them, an instinctive, desperate need to escape. They sprinted into the trees, their feet pounding against the ground as the forest blurred around them.

Run. Run. Run.

The words echoed in their mind, though they were not their own.

Behind them, the lamb’s voice followed, soft but unyielding.

“Wolf, you’ll scare them.”

The wolf’s laugh was a low, rippling snarl, a predator humored by the chase.

“Let them run. After all, their end always meets our future.”

They didn’t look back. They couldn’t.

The forest twisted around them, the phantom wind roaring in their ears as they fled, knowing only that they couldn’t let those creatures get closer.

---

No matter which way they turned, no matter how many trees they pushed past, how many unseen branches snagged at them, or how far they ran, the clearing was always waiting.

The endless rush through the forest had blurred everything together—time, direction, even the faint sense of purpose that had once driven their legs forward. But it didn’t matter. Each time, the same circle of swaying grass greeted them, the pond shimmering faintly under the eternal not-light of this place.

And those shadows—they followed, always just at the edge of sight. A flicker here, a dart there. Never close enough to touch, but never far enough to forget. The Lamb and the Wolf were playing a game. Enjoying the primal terror their presence brought.

Toying with me.

The realization struck, sharp and bitter. Their steps faltered, a hollow frustration bubbling up in their chest. They had lost count of the attempts. Of how many times they’d bolted into the trees, only to crash back into the clearing. How many times they thought they’d seen a way out, only for it to twist back into the same haunting scene.

Their legs continued forward, but their mind screamed against the futility, the aimlessness of it all.

Stop. Just stop.

When the clearing unfolded before them once more, they obeyed.

Their body stilled, every muscle taut as though expecting the shadows to pounce now that they’d paused. But nothing came. The trees swayed with the same eerie grace, the pond rippled faintly as if disturbed by an unseen breeze, and the watchers in the treeline... simply watched.

For a moment, they stood there, frozen by the crushing weight of realization. They couldn’t outrun this place. They couldn’t fight it, either.

So they waited.

The stillness hung over the clearing like a heavy shroud, pressing down on them.

But the Lamb and Wolf didn’t emerge.

Their breath hitched in their chest—no, not breath. That hollow motion of air that seemed to serve no purpose other than to mimic life.

They spared one last glance at the treeline, where those silent figures lingered, and then turned their eyes to the pond.

If the game was over, then only one thing remained.

The dread that had gripped them before returned with icy fingers, but this time, they pushed through it. Feet unsteady, they staggered forward until they were at the water’s edge.

Kneeling, they squeezed their eyes shut, afraid to open them and face the truth.

Their fingers clawed at their face, desperate, trembling. A scream rose in their throat, raw and feral. “Why can’t I look?”

They pressed their hands against their face, nails digging into skin as though the pain would force their eyes open.

Finally, they did.

The scream that erupted from them was unlike anything they’d ever heard before—hoarse, broken, and filled with confusion.

The reflection staring back at them wasn’t their own. It couldn’t be their own.

The water rippled slightly as if the reflection itself wanted to escape their gaze, but the young woman looking back at them didn’t vanish. Her hair, long and intricately braided, glinted faintly in the strange, ambient light of the place. Her cheekbones, high and sharp, seemed foreign. Her jawline, softer than expected, felt wrong.

They touched their face with trembling hands, their fingers tracing contours they knew weren’t right. But why weren’t they right? What had they looked like before? Why couldn’t they remember?

Their hands dropped, shaking, to their sides. A sob escaped their lips, their reflection staring back, unyielding.

And then, as their fingers brushed the surface of the pond, lines began to appear. Faint wrinkles danced across their hands, scars etching themselves into their skin as though revealing a lifetime they couldn’t remember. 

Eyes widening in horror, they traced their fingers down to their waist, their trembling hands meeting the soft curve of hips that didn’t belong to the person they thought they were.

Tears streamed down their cheeks, splashing into the pond.

Behind them, a voice whispered, so close yet so distant, sending shivers coursing down their spine.

“You look, but you do not see,” Lamb said, her words floating on the phantom wind. “You refuse to face the truth.”

They spun around, but before they could speak—before they could ask what truth?—Lamb was there. Her bow was raised, the strings taut.

The arrow struck true, piercing through their chest.

Pain flared, but it wasn’t physical. It was deeper than that, striking something beyond flesh and bone.

The world went black.

Chapter Text

Is this what it feels like to end?

I do not know, for this is not our end.

Do others come back?

Those who do, wish they hadn't.

The scent of rye filled their senses as they woke once more, lying flat on their back amidst the golden stalks. Their eyes flew open, and they sat up abruptly, the world around them spinning slightly as they took it all in. The sky above was as before—neither day nor night, an endless canvas of muted hues with no sun or stars to guide them. A low hum, almost imperceptible, seemed to hang in the air, the only sound beyond the rustle of rye swaying in a breeze they could not feel.

They glanced down at their hands. The sight made them pause. The scars and wrinkles—lines they hadn’t remembered earning but had grown to understand—were still there. They turned their hands over slowly, palms up, then back down again, as if expecting them to change under closer scrutiny. No blood. No wound.

But there must have been. Hadn’t there?

They pressed a hand to their chest, their fingers trembling slightly. The sharp memory of Lamb’s arrow—a piercing, undeniable strike—came rushing back. They could feel it in their mind more than in their body, but when they pressed harder against their chest, there was nothing. No pain, no mark. Just the faint memory of what should have been their end.

“Why?” they whispered aloud, their voice hoarse and cracked. Their tone startled them. “Why am I still here?”

Their eyes darted around the rye field, scanning for movement, a flash of black or white, anything to explain this eerie continuity. There was nothing but the endless sea of golden stalks. Slowly, shakily, they rose to their feet, brushing their hands over their sides to ground themselves, even though the sensation felt muted, distant.

They began walking, their movements stiff at first, but their pace quickened as unease pushed them forward. Every step parted the rye with a faint whispering sound, but it always closed behind them, swallowing their path as if they had never been.

“I remember it,” they muttered to themselves, their voice growing steadier as they pressed forward. “I remember the arrow. I remember… falling. But I don’t remember—” They stopped mid-sentence, shaking their head as frustration built. “Why am I here? Why am I still walking?”

The question echoed in their mind as they moved, but their stride faltered when the edge of the rye field came into view. Looming before them once more was the forest.

The sight of it—the towering, spindly white trees, their branches weaving together like gnarled fingers—made their breath catch. They stopped, frozen, their eyes scanning the treeline. That same phantom wind stirred the branches, though the air around them remained still.

“No,” they said, their voice trembling. “No, I didn’t… I didn’t walk this way. I didn’t.”

Their legs felt heavy, but they managed to take a step back. Then another. They turned and broke into a run, the golden stalks brushing against them as they fled in the opposite direction. Their heart—or whatever was beating inside them—pounded with a rhythm that didn’t feel entirely their own.

This time, they were certain. They kept a straight line, heading far, far away from the forest. But as the rye began to thin again, they felt their stomach sink.

The forest stood in front of them once more.

They skidded to a halt, panting not from exertion but from sheer panic. “No, no, no!” Their voice cracked as they turned again and ran, the field blurring around them as they pushed forward. They didn’t care which direction—just away. But every path, every line they chose to follow, led them back to the same place.

The tall white trees loomed ahead, mocking in their stillness.

“Why?” they screamed into the still air, their voice breaking. “Why won’t you let me leave?!”

The words hung in the silence, unanswered. Their chest heaved with the effort of speaking, and yet no true exhaustion came. Instead, a hot, seething anger began to rise within them, replacing the confusion.

“This is you, isn’t it?” They turned in a slow circle, addressing no one and nothing but the empty sky and the golden rye around them. “You’re toying with me again. The same stupid trick, over and over. Just like the pond. Just like—”

Their hands clenched into fists, and they glared at the treeline as if daring it to respond. “Cowards,” they hissed through clenched teeth. “Petty, cowards!”

Their voice carried no echo, swallowed instantly by the emptiness. But somewhere deep in the trees, a faint sound stirred—a rustling that felt almost like laughter.

---

After what felt like an eternity in the timelessness of the rye field, they took a step forward. The forest called to them, a hollow hymn carried on an unfelt wind, and they wandered beneath the familiar canopy of pale, spindly trees. Their limbs moved, though they did not remember choosing to walk. Each step left no imprint, no whisper of their passing, as though the earth itself had forgotten them.

Eyes wide and searching, they turned their head, seeking... something. Anything. Anything to show them that things have changed, that they've woken up elsewhere. The forest stretched unbroken, a labyrinth of silence and spectral bark. Yet deeper within, there it was—a clearing they recognized.

The symbol waited in its center, stark and eternal, carved into the ground as if by the forest itself. They froze, their breath quickening, a deep and pounding ache unfurling in their chest. Or was it their chest? It beat like a drum that wasn’t there, an echo of something lost.

A sudden surge of urgency seized them, and they ran. The air whipped past, yet the forest felt still—too still. Their eyes darted frantically, catching glimmers of movement: a white blur to their left, a shadow slipping through the trees on their right. The Lamb. The Wolf. Their shapes danced on the periphery, always there, always out of reach. Always on the hunt.

“Let me go!” they cried, their voice swallowed by the woods.

Their feet carried them forward, breaking into another clearing, this one cloaked in a familiar quiet. In its center, the pond lay undisturbed, its surface a mirror of the half-moon that chose not to grace the timeless sky. They stopped short, their breath ragged. They dared not approach the water, dared not see what it might show.

The fear was sharp, visceral, blooming into a desperate refusal. They turned away, ready to plunge back into the forest, but the air shifted. A sudden weight pressed down on the clearing as Lamb appeared, bow in hand, her presence luminous and inescapable.

Her voice rang out, soft and sure, each word cutting through the stillness.
“You must face the truth.”

The arrow loosed, a streak of light that found its mark without hesitation. It struck their chest, a cold and searing thread pulling through the place where their heart should have been. They staggered, a sound caught between a sob and a gasp escaping their lips.

Then, they were enveloped by the familiar feeling of darkness.
---

The air around the rye field was still, as if holding its breath in anticipation. Their eyes snapped open, their chest heaving—not from the exertion of breath but from a fury that burned hotter than any fear they’d felt before. Their fists clenched as they sat up abruptly, glaring at the endless stalks swaying in the phantom wind.

“No more,” they hissed, their voice trembling with rage.

The cycle, the chase, the endless repetition—it gnawed at their mind, churning frustration into a wildfire of rage. They stood, their movements sharp and deliberate, and stormed toward the forest they knew would greet them one way or another.

The white-barked trees loomed before them, their shadows stretching unnaturally, as though bending toward them. They stopped just at the edge of the forest, their hands resting on their hips as they stared into its depths.

For a moment, a flicker of hesitation crossed their mind—what if this time was different? What if they could break whatever force tethered them to this endless waltz of torment?

But the anger surged again, pushing aside the thought like a crashing wave.

Without another second of doubt, they stepped into the forest.

The air grew cooler, heavier. The whisper of leaves overhead was louder this time, their rustling sounding less like nature and more like murmurs—soft voices calling them deeper. The path twisted, unfamiliar and yet agonizingly predictable.

They walked quickly, their eyes darting around for signs of change.

But there was none.

Eventually, they came upon the clearing with the mark etched into the earth.

It stared up at them, pristine and untouched, its lines brutal against the soil. 

Their frustration boiled over.

“Enough of this!” they shouted, their voice reverberating through the trees. They lashed out with their foot, smearing the delicate mark into a chaotic smear of soil and earth.

The forest went still, suffocatingly so.

And then, they came once again.

From the shadows, Lamb and Wolf emerged as if birthed by the forest itself. Lamb stepped forward gracefully, her bow drawn, while Wolf slunk beside her, his eyes gleaming with malicious joy.

They didn’t wait for them to speak. They turned and ran, their feet pounding against the forest floor as if their fury could outrun them this time.

Lamb’s bowstring thrummed.

“Still, you flee,” Lamb whispered, her voice a melodic accusation.

“And yet, you always return,” Wolf added, his guttural laugh echoing through the trees.

They didn’t respond. Their body moved instinctively, twisting and weaving through the forest, their pulse thrumming with unspent rage. The landscape blurred around them until they stumbled into the familiar clearing with the pond.

The half-moon shimmered in the water, distorted and faintly glowing, but they refused to approach. They clenched their fists, glaring at the pond as if daring it to pull them in again.

“I already saw!” they screamed, their voice cracking with raw emotion. “What more do you want from me?!”

The faint whistle of an arrow cut through the air.

They froze, their chest tightening.

The arrow pierced their chest, sharp and merciless. Their knees buckled, and as they crumpled to the ground, Lamb’s voice echoed faintly in their ears, almost mournful.

“You still refuse to see the truth that lies within.”

The world dissolved into darkness.

The rye fields again.

They bolted upright, their fists slamming into the ground. The soft stalks bent under their weight as they sat there, trembling with barely contained rage.

“Stop it,” they muttered, their voice low and venomous.

Their fingers clawed at the soil before they stood once more, glaring at the distant forest as if it mocked them.

“Stop doing this to me!” they roared, stomping toward the trees.

Each step felt heavier than the last, their fury warring with the gnawing dread deep inside them. As they reached the forest’s edge once more, they paused, staring into the tangled shadows beyond.

Their heart—if it still beat—ached with the weight of futility. But that ache was drowned beneath the fire stoked by their rage.

This time, they vowed, they would end this.

---

Their hands trembled, curling into fists as frustration surged beneath their skin. Before them, the forest loomed, stark and indifferent, the pale trees swaying in the rhythm of a phantom wind. It pulled at them, relentless and silent, and after what felt like an eternity of resistance, they exhaled sharply, a whisper of surrender slipping past their lips.

"I’m done running," they murmured, though their heart—or the hollow echo of it—lurched in protest.

A step forward, then another.

Golden rye rippled in waves around them, whispering against their legs, parting as though the forest itself allowed their passage. But the moment they stepped beneath the canopy, the sound vanished. The rye’s song was swallowed whole, replaced by the crushing silence of the white woods. Even the faint crackle of undergrowth beneath their feet seemed muted, each step a soundless gasp in a world that had forgotten noise.

They did not look around this time. Their gaze remained locked forward, a refusal to let the twisting, shifting shadows tug at their focus. The silence pressed against their ears, almost suffocating, broken only by the occasional rustle—movement at the edge of sight. It teased them, but they had learned not to flinch.

They did not know how long they walked; time had no hold here. But eventually, the trees opened, yielding to the clearing they knew too well.

The marking on the ground still waited, its lines stark against the soft earth. Yet it had changed. White bark now wove across one side, rigid and skeletal, while the other was strewn with curling black leaves, their edges brittle as ash. At its center stood a single stalk of golden rye, impossibly unblemished, as if untouched by the decay surrounding it.

They hesitated, caught in the pull of something they couldn’t name. The sight of the rye drew a hum from deep within, not memory, but something heavier. Their body moved before their mind could catch up, crossing the edge of the symbol to reach it.

Fingers brushed the stalk. It came free without resistance, its fragile weight unfamiliar in their palm. For a moment, they stared at it, running their thumb across its delicate surface. Then they closed their eyes, clutching it tightly as they released a trembling breath.

When they opened their eyes, the clearing felt different. Or perhaps it was them. They turned without another glance at the symbol and walked on, the forest swallowing their retreat.

The trees crowded closer now, their white limbs stretching overhead like skeletal hands knitting the sky shut. The rustling came again—closer, more persistent—but they did not turn. The watchers in the shadows were no longer an unfamiliar foe.

Finally, the woods thinned, yielding to the clearing with the pond at its center. 

They approached slowly, their movements deliberate, and knelt by the water’s edge. Their reflection gazed back: a young woman, her sharp cheekbones stark against the faint glow of the moon, her braid draped over one shoulder. The image was just as jarring as before, but they refused to let it sway them.

They exhaled softly and gripped the stalk of rye tighter, its stem bending under the pressure but refusing to break.

They tore their eyes away from the water, turning sharply from the pond. The stalk of rye trembled slightly in their grasp as they looked toward the shadowy forest.

“No more,” they said aloud, their voice carrying through the clearing. “I won’t waste my time here. I refuse to waste away. I won’t run anymore.”

The forest seemed to hold its breath.

“Do you hear me?” they called out, their voice rising. “I won’t grant you the pleasure of running. I’m done with this game!”

The shadows deepened, the half-light of the clearing dimming as the trees seemed to lean closer. The whispering began again, rising and falling like a tide.

Wolf came first, his massive, shadowy form materializing from the darkness, his eyes glowing an otherworldly gold. Smoke coiled around him, curling and dissipating as he stepped forward, his hulking frame almost too large to fit between the trees. His mask, sleek and bone-white, glinted faintly in the dim light.

“You call, and we answer,” he said, his voice a guttural growl. “But do you truly understand what it is to face us?”

Before they could answer, Lamb stepped into view, her lithe form almost glowing against the backdrop of the white woods. Her mask obscured her face, but her calm, ethereal presence was unmistakable. She carried her bow loosely in one hand, her posture unhurried, as though she had all the time in the world.

“You demand to face us,” she said softly, her voice as calm as the forest was wild. “But the hunt is not free.”

Wolf circled slowly, his gaze never leaving them. “There is always a price,” he rumbled. “Are you willing to pay it, little one?”

The person squared their shoulders, their grip on the rye stalk unwavering. “I’ll pay it,” they said, their voice resolute. “Whatever it costs, I’m ready.”

Wolf’s laugh was low and rumbling, filling the clearing like rolling thunder. “Brave words. Let us see if you mean them.”

Lamb raised her bow, the string drawing itself taut as an arrow of shimmering light appeared.

“The hunt begins,” she whispered.

---

The moment Lamb loosed her arrow, the forest seemed to tremble, the silence breaking like shattering glass. The air cracked with the hum of her bowstring, and the arrow of light streaked through the dim clearing. At the same time, Wolf surged forward, his massive form coiling and twisting as he closed the distance, his growl like distant thunder.

The person ran.

Instinct overtook thought. They turned on their heels, twisting and weaving, their movements guided by something beyond their understanding. The rye stalk in their hand flared, its warmth spilling into their chest like liquid fire, filling them with an indescribable energy. Each step felt weightless, as though the ground itself pushed them forward, and though Lamb’s arrows sang through the air around them and Wolf’s snarls echoed in their ears, they never faltered.

The chase blurred into something surreal. Their feet barely touched the ground, their limbs moving as though they were both puppet and master. Lamb darted through the clearing, her pale form a phantom as arrows rained in all directions, each one narrowly missing its mark. Wolf’s hulking shadow leaped and lunged, snapping at their heels with a feral glee, his laughter echoing like a hunter reveling in the thrill of pursuit.

“Faster,” Wolf called, his voice rippling through the trees. “You run so well, little one. Give me more!”

“Do they?” Lamb’s voice followed, cryptic and distant. “Or do they merely delay the inevitable?”

The person ducked and rolled, an arrow slicing past their cheek, its light fading into the shadows. They twisted again, leaping over Wolf’s snapping jaws, landing without a sound.

Still, they ran. Still, they moved.

The world around them blurred, a storm of light, shadow, and motion. Their senses sharpened and dulled all at once, timeless time folding into something unrecognizable. The person found themselves drawing closer and closer to their pursuers with every dodge and turn, their movements instinctively calculated, their body moving before their mind caught up. Wolf’s eyes burned with delight, his laughter rolling low and guttural.

“Oh, Lamb, they are exquisite,” Wolf said as he bounded through the trees. “But all dances end.”

“They run from truth,” Lamb replied, her bowstring taut once more. “But truth always finds its mark.”

The pair moved in unison, their forms circling, their movements synchronized like a predator and its shadow.

The person’s breath hitched as they felt the shift, their steps faltering for only a fraction of a second. Lamb’s arrow glowed brighter, its aim true, and Wolf’s charge came with unstoppable momentum.

“The hunt is nearly over,” they said together, their voices weaving like threads in a tapestry.

The arrow flew, its light searing through the dimness, and Wolf’s jaws opened wide, glinting with cruel anticipation.

Then it happened.

A faint spark ignited deep within the person, a sensation that spread from their chest outward—a flicker of light, of heat, of power. It raced through their limbs like a lightning bolt, surging with impossible clarity. Their feet lifted from the ground, propelled by something primal and untamed. Time seemed to slow, the world narrowing to the single moment where all forces collided.

The person twisted in the air, their body arcing like a streak of light. Lamb’s arrow skimmed past their chest, missing by a hair’s breadth, and Wolf’s jaws snapped shut on empty air. They landed between the two beings, the rye stalk in their hand blazing with golden light. The faint scent of cigarillo smoke invaded their senses, a memory so familiar yet so unreachable.

Electricity crackled through their veins, blindingly white, pouring out in radiant arcs. It burst forth from their hands, their chest, their feet, searing the air with an intensity that lit the clearing like a second sun. The golden glow of the rye mixed with the white electricity, the two forces dancing together in an overwhelming, chaotic harmony. The scent of cigarillo smoke intensified, a deep, rumbling laughter ringing in the back of their mind, a feeling of primal love washing over them.

The roar that tore from their throat was hoarse, animalistic, echoing through the trees and beyond.

Lamb and Wolf both leapt back, their forms bathed in the radiant light. Wolf landed gracefully, his laughter quieting into a thoughtful rumble. Lamb lowered her bow, the light fading from the string as she stepped beside her companion.

Wolf tilted his head, sitting slowly, his massive form folding into an almost relaxed posture. “Well done, little one” he said, his tone laced with amusement. “Even better than we predicted.”

Lamb stood still, her mask tilting slightly. “You surprise even the eternal,” she said softly.

The person staggered a step backward, the rye stalk trembling in their grip. Their gaze darted between Lamb and Wolf, who remained perfectly still, as if frozen in place by the weight of unspoken truths.

“Why…?” their voice cracked, the sound almost swallowed by the stillness of the clearing. They steadied themselves, forcing their voice louder, angrier. “Why did you stop? Why aren’t you chasing me anymore? I’m not falling for any more of your petty tricks!”

Wolf grinned wide, his teeth gleaming like shards of moonlight. His body radiated a sense of amusement, as if the person’s defiance was the most delightful thing he’d witnessed. “Petty tricks? Oh, little one…” he began, his voice rolling like distant thunder.

Lamb’s voice lilted softly, finishing his thought. “…The hunt is not over. It has only been delayed.”

“Delayed?” the person spat, their frustration rising. “What do you mean ‘delayed’? What are you playing at?”

Wolf’s shoulders shook with a deep chuckle, his tail swishing once against the ground. He nodded toward the rye stalk in their hand. “Something burns in you that is not of our domain. A gift…”

Lamb stepped forward, her head tilting just so, her voice soft as a lullaby. “…From a father whose love delays the inevitable end of your waltz.”

“A father?” the person echoed, blinking. They looked down at the rye stalk again, the golden light now a faint pulse in their grip.

Wolf’s tone shifted, deeper now, weighted with something close to reverence. “A father whose magic could tame those the living call Death, whose very name stirs fear in their bones. A father who danced toe to toe with the inevitable and whose power prevailed time and again.”

Lamb’s gaze seemed to pierce through the person as she continued. “And the experiments of a fractured mind—a man who would do anything to find the cure to what is inevitable. Us.”

The person’s breath caught, their pulse hammering in their chest as their mind scrambled to make sense of their words. They looked down at the rye stalk, now no longer just a simple stalk but something alive in their hand, imbued with power, meaning, and... warmth.

“Face the truth,” Lamb murmured, her voice like a ghost on the breeze. “It is the only path. If you wish to leave, you must see what lies within.”

The person met her gaze, holding it for a long, tense moment. Lamb’s form was unyielding, and Wolf sat beside her like a shadow given form, watching with his sharp grin.

Finally, the person turned, their steps heavy as they approached the pond. The half-moon glimmered faintly on its surface, its glow whispering promises the person couldn’t understand.

They stopped at the edge, the rye stalk pressed tightly to their chest.

They looked back once, their eyes scanning the treeline where Lamb and Wolf stood. Neither had moved. Neither spoke.

A deep sigh shuddered from their lips, their hand trembling as they squeezed their eyes shut. Something deep inside told them that to look now would mean change—something irreversible.

But they were done running.

They steeled themselves, gripping the rye stalk tighter, and opened their eyes.

The reflection rippled into focus.

What greeted them was not the young woman with the single braid.

It was a girl.

Her head lolled unnaturally to the side, her neck bearing a long-healed scar that ran horizontally, cruel and deep. Her arms were twisted, mangled beyond recognition, bones peeking grotesquely beneath the sickly, translucent skin. One side of her hair was burnt away, exposing a patch of raw, glistening scalp.

Her chest—her ribs—were a horror of jagged lines poking outward, like a grotesque cage broken from within. Her legs were bent at impossible angles, shattered in ways the living could not endure.

The person stared, their breath caught in their throat, unable to look away. Tears welled in their eyes as they tried to speak, but no sound came out. A sense of understanding washed over them, and yet they could not comprehend what it meant.

The girl in the pond’s reflection gazed back, her lifeless eyes wide and hollow.

The rye stalk in the person’s hand flared for an instant, its golden light flickering faintly as if mourning the sight before them.

From behind, Lamb’s voice came, soft and solemn. “You see, but do you understand?”

Wolf’s growl rumbled low, his tone almost pitying. “You cannot flee the truth, little one. It always catches up.”

The person’s knees buckled, and they fell to the edge of the pond, their reflection distorting in the rippling water. Tears spilled freely, though they made no sound.

The girl’s reflection seemed to reach back through the water, her lips parting in a silent question the person couldn’t bear to answer.

Their hands trembled as they looked back at Lamb and Wolf, angry tears cutting hot tracks down their cheeks. Their voice cracked, strained and hoarse as they yelled, “Why? Why do you keep showing me different people? First… her! Then… this!” Their hand gestured wildly toward the mangled reflection in the water, their voice breaking. “Who am I supposed to be? What am I supposed to be?”

Wolf chuckled low, the sound reverberating through the clearing like the rumble of distant thunder. His teeth gleamed in the faint light of the half-moon, his eyes dark as the void. “What you first saw…”

Lamb’s voice wove into his, soft and melodic, “…was what you could have been.”

They staggered backward, shaking their head violently, the rye stalk burning brighter against their chest. “No. No, no, no!” they shouted, their voice raw with disbelief. “This isn’t me. It can’t be!”

Wolf’s tone dipped, a growl threading through his words. “The second vision—this broken form staring back—is what you are.”

Lamb stepped forward slightly, her bow lowering, her gaze piercing. “The version of you that we expected eagerly in our domain.”

Their body buckled, and they collapsed, their forehead resting against the pond’s edge. Their eyes locked onto the reflection—the child’s mangled form, twisted and shattered, their face gray as death. The rye stalk burned hotter now, its golden light growing fierce. Pain exploded in their chest, a searing, piercing agony that forced a gasp from their lips.

Their head tipped back as the faint smell of chemicals teased their senses. It was bitter and sharp—the faintest whiff of antiseptic mingled with mildew, of rot creeping into forgotten corners. It clawed at their nose, at their mind.

“No,” they whispered, voice trembling as they clawed at their skin, desperate to shake the sensations away. “No, this isn’t real. I can't be dead.”

They turned their tear-soaked face to Lamb and Wolf, choking on their words. “Why? Why are you doing this to me?”

Wolf’s grin widened, but there was no malice in it—only inevitability.

Lamb stepped closer, her tone serene and unwavering. “It is time…”

“…that we part ways,” Wolf finished, his voice carrying a tone of finality.

Their hands clawed harder at their skin, their nails digging into their arms as they sobbed. “No! You can’t leave me like this! Who—who are you?” Their voice cracked, the desperation dripping from every syllable.

Wolf’s eyes gleamed as he spoke, his voice deep and resonant. “We are two.”

Lamb’s words came soft and steady. “We are one.”

Their voices wove together, an eerie harmony as they began to switch effortlessly between one another.

“We are those who the living beings of old called- Thanatos.”

“Kael’tharan.”

“Ahn’dhal.”

 "Death.”

Finally, their voices merged into one, seamless and omnipresent.

“We are Kindred.”

Their breath caught in their throat, the weight of their words pressing down on their chest like an iron shroud. The rye stalk burned so brightly now that it seemed to fuse with their skin, sending white-hot pain searing through them.

Lamb’s mask tilted slightly as she spoke. “We will meet you again when your end nears once more.”

Together, their voices resonated, final and unyielding. “Your steps carry you away from us, yet we are your path. We are your past. We are your present. We are your future. Nyra, the child who refuses to die.”

They froze, their name hanging in the air like a dagger. They clutched the rye stalk tightly to their chest, their tears slowing as they tried to process what had been spoken. Their lips trembled as they whispered, “Nyra…”

When they looked up, Lamb and Wolf were gone, the clearing empty save for the faint glow of the half-moon reflected in the still waters of the pond.

They gasped as an invisible force gripped their head, jerking their gaze downward toward the pond. Their body tensed, their hands instinctively clawing at the air, but they was powerless against the weight holding them. Their reflection in the water—the mangled child, twisted and broken—wavered, dissolving into ripples as the pond’s surface began to twist and churn.

The faint half-moon reflected in the still waters convulsed, bending unnaturally as if alive, its edges curling inward, spiraling into itself. Lines etched themselves into the chaotic reflection—delicate, deliberate strokes that wove together, forming the mark they had seen carved into the forest floor time and time again during the endless cycle of the hunt.

"No," They whispered, their voice a fragile thread of denial.

The mark shimmered with a cold, otherworldly light, its presence impossibly vivid, as though it were burning itself into their mind.

“Stop!” they cried out, but the force around them only tightened, compelling them to stare as the mark grew brighter, its glow searing into their consciousness.

Their head throbbed, and the pain surged, blooming behind their eyes like an exploding star. They felt it slam into their mind—an unstoppable tidal wave of something ancient, something vast. Their scream tore through the clearing, raw and hoarse, as their energy left them.

Their body crumpled forward, plunging into the pond.

The water was freezing, yet it burned as it enveloped them. They flailed, but the weight of the force was relentless, dragging them downward. The last thing they saw before the pond’s surface closed above them was the sky—warped, unnatural, its colors bleeding together like a twisted watercolor painting.

The vast nothingness of the sky was gone. In its place, Kindred’s mark loomed, glowing with cruel brilliance, its lines pulsing as though alive.

Then the waters consumed them, swallowing their scream as the world turned black.

---

Nyra woke with a jolt, the void of Kindred's domain shattering into sharp reality. A scream tore from her throat, raw and unrelenting, a sound she didn’t recognize as her own. Her vocal cords—miraculously mended but untouched for five long years—strained against the sudden violence, each note grating like stone against stone.

She was alive, breathing—though each breath carried the ghost of Kindred’s mark, etched deep into the shadows of her mind. A golden glow pulsed faintly in her chest, sinking inward until it vanished, taking with it the clinging scent of cigarillo smoke that had wrapped around her senses like a warm blanket moments before.

Chapter Text

The world swam into focus slowly, as if Nyra’s senses were crawling out of a murky abyss. Everything was blurred, indistinct, like smudged paint on a damp canvas. She blinked hard, her lashes heavy and sticky, but it didn’t help. Her throat burned—a dry, searing ache—and instinctively, her hand shot up to clutch it.

A ragged gasp escaped her, the sound foreign and fractured in her ears.

Calm down.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her trembling fingers pressed to her temples. Her pulse thudded in her head like a drumbeat, her breath shallow and erratic. Slowly, achingly, she opened her eyes again.

The room was dim and unfamiliar, shadows curling into every corner like they belonged there. She sat on a metal table streaked with grime, its surface cold and sticky against her legs. Her gaze snagged on something—small, clear tubes piercing her arms, pumping glowing liquid into her veins. The liquid inside them pulsed with a bizarre, mesmerizing color—a mix of neon pink and electric violet, glowing faintly in the dim light.

Her body jolted with revulsion.

With a strangled gasp, Nyra yanked the tubes free. The sharp sting was nothing compared to the wave of dizziness that followed. She stumbled, her feet tangling beneath her as she slid off the table. The cold floor greeted her knees with a painful thud. Her vision spiraled, and she groaned, clutching at her head. 

She sat on the ground for what felt like an eternity, massaging her temples.

When her vision finally stopped spinning, she pressed her palms against the floor, pushing herself upright. Her legs felt like jelly, wobbling beneath her weight, but she managed to stand.

Barely.

Her hand gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white as she leaned on it for balance.

The air in the room was damp and heavy, tinged with the sharp, acrid tang of chemicals. It smelled of antiseptic and something that made Nyra pause. It reminded her of the smell she noticed while in Kindred's realm. She pushed the thought away - she had more pressing matters to attend to.

Nyra forced her eyes to focus. To her right, a cluttered workbench overflowed with vials, beakers, and jars filled with things she didn’t want to name. Shelves loomed above it, lined with glass containers housing grotesque specimens, suspended in murky liquid. At the far end of the room, a massive window stretched across the wall, revealing an underwater world outside. Dark water shifted sluggishly, its surface lit faintly by the dim glow of distant lights. A school of neon green fish with long tentacles darted by, their sleek forms disappearing into the gloom.

The edges of the room were tinged with soot, as if it had gone through an explosion.

She felt it then—a pang in her chest. It was sharp, electric, as if someone had reached inside her and pulled on a string. Her gaze dropped, and her breath caught.

Scars. Thin and jagged, they ran along her arms like golden lightning bolts, faint but undeniable. Her fingers trailed over them, and the realization hit her like a punch to the gut. They weren’t just scars—they were alive.

And all of them led to her chest.

Nyra’s trembling hands fumbled at the hem of her shirt. She pulled it over her head, her eyes widening as the final piece fell into place.

Her heart stopped.

There, embedded in her chest, right where her heart is, was a device—a cartridge, or something more sophisticated. It pulsed softly, its edges fused seamlessly with her flesh. Inside, liquid swirled in hypnotic waves of neon pink, tinted with an icy blue. In the center of the device, encased in glass, was a fragment of a blue crystal, its surface faintly tinged with pink, like something had tainted its purity.

Nyra staggered backward, panic clawing at her throat. Her breathing came fast and shallow as she stumbled to a grimy mirror hanging on the wall. She twisted to look at her back and felt a new wave of horror crash over her.

It went all the way through. The device protruded from both sides of her chest, its glow faintly illuminating her skin.

“No… no, no, no!” she rasped. Her voice was hoarse, raw, and unfamiliar. With a gasp, she finally realized that she could speak. The pain was unbearable, bringing tears to her eyes. Too much information coursed through her mind, shock after shock sending waves of pain flashing through her head.

She clawed at her throat, her nails scraping against the faint golden scar there. Her other hand pressed against the device in her chest, as if she could rip it out.

The sound of movement snapped her head around.

From the shadows, a calm voice broke the silence. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Nyra froze, her wide eyes locking onto a man rifling through a cabinet. His voice was steady, detached, as if this was all routine for him. He pulled out a syringe, holding it up to inspect its contents.

“You’ll overexert yourself,” he continued, not sparing her a glance. “It’s a miracle you’re standing at all, let alone alive.”

Her breath hitched. “Who—who are you?” she croaked, her voice breaking.

The man finally turned, and her stomach dropped.

The right side of his face was a patchwork of scar tissue and boils, grotesquely distorted as if melted by fire. His mouth was concealed behind bandages, the edges frayed and stained. What hair he had left stuck out in uneven clumps, the rest singed away.

“You can call me your savior,” he said, his tone clinical, almost bored. He stepped closer, his footsteps soft but deliberate. “Now, sit back down. There are tests to run.”

Nyra stumbled backward, her back pressing against the cold metal of the operating table. Her chest heaved as her gaze darted between him and the syringe.

“Don’t worry,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “It won’t hurt. Too much.”

The man stepped closer, the syringe glinting faintly in the low light. His bandaged mouth tilted into what might’ve been a smile, but it only made him more terrifying.

Nyra’s heart pounded, her breath hitching as he leaned in. Reflex took over. She screamed, a raw, hoarse sound that ripped from her throat, and lashed out. Her foot connected squarely with his shin.

For a split second, nothing happened. Then—CRACKLE!

A burst of pink-blue sparks erupted from the point of contact, crawling up his leg like jagged lightning. The man staggered, a low grunt escaping him as he nearly dropped the syringe.

“What—” he began, his voice sharp with surprise.

But Nyra wasn’t waiting to find out what came next. Before her brain could catch up with her body, she turned and bolted, her bare feet slapping against the cold, dirty floor.

“Don’t—!” the man shouted, his voice echoing down the hallway as Nyra darted through the open door.

The corridor stretched endlessly ahead of her, dimly lit by flickering neon lights. She pushed herself forward, her chest heaving, the device embedded in her heart pulsing faster and faster. The walls blurred around her, a tunnel of shadow and grime, until she burst through another door and into the open air.

Her feet skidded to a halt on uneven ground.

The old cannery.

The air was stale, laced with the faint, acrid stench of rust and decay. Sunlight filtered through broken windows and collapsed walls, casting fractured beams across the floor. Nyra froze, her breath catching as memories crashed over her like a tidal wave.

The heat of the fire.
The weight of rubble against her broken body.
The screams of her friends, silenced too soon.
Vi’s face, blurred and distant, her voice calling—but Nyra couldn’t hear her.

She clutched her head, stumbling against a rusted beam as the phantom sensations flooded her senses. Her nose caught the faintest whiff of burnt flesh, and she gagged, her knees nearly buckling beneath her.

“No. No, no, no,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she forced herself upright. It hurt her to speak, her vocal cords eroded from being unused for five years and miraculously healed.

Move. You have to move.

Her legs carried her before her mind could process where she was going. She tore out of the cannery, the cool undercity air hitting her like a slap to the face.

Her feet pounded against the pavement as she raced toward the Last Drop.

The sight stopped her cold.

The once-bustling hub of the Lanes was a shadow of itself. Boards covered the windows, graffiti scrawled across the walls in angry, chaotic bursts. Trash and broken glass littered the ground, and the faint creak of the wind pushing against the decrepit building was the only sound.

Nyra’s breath quickened, her chest tightening. Her vision blurred again, tears stinging her eyes. This place had once been alive, filled with laughter and arguments, schemes and camaraderie. Now it was hollow. Dead. Covered in dust, grime, and graffiti. 

She stumbled backward, nearly tripping over her own feet, and her mind grasped for somewhere—anywhere—that felt familiar.

Benzo’s shop.

Her legs moved on instinct, carrying her to the small, crumbling store. But when she reached it, reality slammed into her like a freight train.

He was gone. She had seen his dead body up close. She clutched her head as memories slammed in her mind, and let out a small whimper of pain.

Nyra stood frozen, her eyesight blurry, staring at the boarded-up door. Her fists clenched at her sides, her nails biting into her palms. She closed her eyes, drawing in a ragged breath.

This isn’t real. None of this is real.

But it was.

She turned and walked slowly down the alley, her head low, her heart hammering in her chest. Her feet found their way to a house she put off as a last resort - she was afraid of what she might find there.

Grudge's house. Their house.

---

The door loomed before her, warped and weathered but still standing. She froze, her hand hovering just inches from the handle. Memories swirled in her mind—of Grudge’s rumbling laughter, of warm meals shared in the dim kitchen, of the sharp smell of cigarillo smoke - of a life that felt like it belonged to someone else.

The door creaked open, the sound echoing like a ghostly wail in the oppressive silence. Nyra hesitated on the threshold, her fingers clutching the edge of the doorframe as if it might keep her from crumbling.

The house smelled of time, of abandonment. The air was heavy with the sharp, stale tang of dust and mildew. Her heart pounded, a rhythmic thrum against the foreign device in her chest.

Her feet carried her forward despite the icy dread clawing at her insides. The single room yawned before her, dimly lit by the flicker of a broken streetlamp outside. She swallowed hard, her breath hitching as her eyes roamed the space.

Dust clung to every surface, a fine, undisturbed blanket of neglect. The tiny table they used to eat at was bare, save for the jagged edges of broken glass and dishes that glittered faintly in the weak light. Her gaze snagged on the note she had left behind for Grudge, now crumpled on the floor like a discarded memory.

Nyra stepped closer, her legs trembling as she reached down and picked up the note. The paper was brittle under her fingertips, as though it had been crushed in anger and left to decay. She smoothed it out with shaking hands, the words scrawled in her own messy handwriting staring back at her.

“I’ll be g-ne for a while, pop-. Don’t --- for me.”

The drawing of a chicken had faded - the gun barely visible, the bird's smile warped from the creases in the paper.

Her throat tightened.

On the floor beside the note sat a plastic bag, its contents spilled haphazardly. Cans of food—cheap and familiar—lay scattered, their labels faded and curled at the edges. A paper bag that she recognized lay crumpled next to the cans of food - 'Dolly's bakery'. She suppressed a sob as she touched it tenderly - Grudge would buy her syrup bread every year on her birthday. Her fingers brushed over one of the cans, her fingers trembling with the action.

Her chest heaved, the device glowing faintly as her breathing grew erratic.

No. No, no, no.

The weight of it hit her like a freight train, stealing the air from her lungs. This place—it wasn’t just empty. It was abandoned.

Grudge wasn’t here.

Her mind raced, flashes of memories rushing in uninvited. His quiet, rumbling laugh from smoking too many cigarillos, the way he’d nudge her shoulder when he teased her, the way he’d grumble when she nagged him about his drinking. Their sign language lessons, which he insisted on having every morning even if she could sign better than him - just so he could spend some more time with her.

He couldn’t be gone.

He couldn’t have left.

"Grud-" She coughed, her vocal cords straining against the action.

“Grudge?” Her hands lashed out, her body resorting to signing once again, now that her voice caused her physical pain. She stood, her hands trembling in front of her, as she spun around, hoping fruitlessly that he was somehow playing a prank on her and hiding somewhere in the small room. “Pops, are you here?”

The silence that answered her was deafening.

Her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor, her head falling into her hands as she sobbed. The sound was raw, guttural, like it had been ripped from the deepest part of her. The reality of it all crushed her: the dust, the crumpled note, the expired food.

She had missed too much.

Something horrible had happened to her family.

Nyra’s sobs racked her body as she clutched the crumpled note to her chest, the brittle paper crinkling against her trembling fingers. She collapsed fully onto the dusty floor, her knees scraping against the wooden planks, her tears cutting streaks through the grime on her cheeks.

The memories crashed over her like waves, relentless and cruel.

Claggor’s laughter, always deep and full, echoing in the tunnels. His warm smile as she fixed up wounds on his body, the way his hands drew elegant strokes on a makeshift canvas.

Mylo’s endless, sharp remarks that still somehow carried warmth. The way he could always cheer Nyra up, even when doing it subconsciously. His surprising talent for yodeling.

Vi’s strong, reassuring voice—steady even when things fell apart. Her fiery spirit and the beautiful smile she would grace Nyra every once in a while with. Nyra could finally admit that she had found Vi beautiful - more beautiful than anyone else. Even with her annoying retorts, relentless teasing, and stubbornness.

It didn't matter anymore.

It was too late.

And then, the nightmare that followed: the choking dust, the unbearable heat of the flames, and the weight of rubble crushing her body.

She’d seen Vi’s face through blurry vision, streaked with ash and wet with tears, her mouth moving in words Nyra couldn’t hear. Nyra had wanted to respond, to reach out, but her body had refused her. Her voice was gone, her hands unresponsive. She had been powerless. The only thing she could tell Vi is to stay safe. That's what she'd always wanted for her family.

And then, she’d died.

They had died, too.

The realization hit her like a dagger to the chest, tearing through the fragile hope she hadn’t even realized she’d clung to. Her cries grew louder, though her voice was hoarse and strained. She clawed at the golden scar on her throat, desperate to scream the pain out, but only broken, croaking sobs emerged.

Nyra squeezed her eyes shut and, in the dark void behind her eyelids, signed into the emptiness. Her hands moved with a desperation born of grief.

"Why? Why didn’t you bring them back too?"

Her fingers trembled as she signed again, her gestures faltering, incomplete. She buried her face in the crook of her elbow, muffling the cries that refused to be silenced.

Her eyes snagged on the fabric of a shirt lying on the floor. It was old, frayed, and stained, but as her fingers gripped it, she recognized it. Grudge’s shirt—one of the few he owned.

She hugged it to her chest like a lifeline, inhaling the faint, lingering scent of grease and antiseptic that hadn’t yet faded with time. Her tears soaked through the fabric as her fingers clutched it tighter, her body curling into a ball on the cold, hard floor.

It wasn’t fair.

She’d begged to stay with them. She'd prayed to Janna. She’d screamed in her mind for the Kindred to take her, too, to let her run with Mylo and Claggor, to let her sit with Vi again. But instead, the Lamb and Wolf had left her behind, dragging her back into a life she didn’t want. Forced her to suffer a life without her loved ones by her side.

Nyra’s voice failed her entirely, and her sobs gave way to hollow, silent gasps as she buried herself deeper into the faded shirt. She stayed there, curled on the floor, as the day passed unnoticed. The dim light from the broken streetlamp outside cast shifting shadows across the room, marking the passage of hours she didn’t care to count.

She held Grudge’s shirt tightly, her fingers clutching the fabric as though letting go would mean losing everything all over again.

---

Three days had passed, and Nyra hadn’t eaten. The last of the canned food—barely edible to begin with—was gone. She’d scraped out every last morsel with her fingers, swallowing it in small, desperate bites that did little to quiet her hunger. The effort of moving was minimal; she only left the bed to relieve herself or search for more cans, always returning empty-handed.

Grudge’s bed was her sanctuary and her prison, its worn mattress cradling her as she clutched his old shirt to her chest. The scent that had once comforted her, faint traces of him lingering in the fabric, was beginning to fade. Each passing day robbed her of that small connection, and with it, Nyra felt herself sinking deeper into despair.

She decided, begrudgingly, that it was time to scavenge for money. The coin pouch that she had left for Grudge was gone. 

Nyra dragged herself to the front door and opened it reluctantly, her eyes taking a while to adjust to the faint neon lights of the Lanes.

She stumbled down the dim, grimy alleyways of the Undercity, her steps unsteady in Grudge’s worn-out shoes. The soles felt unfamiliar against her feet, their loose fit a reminder that nothing was the same anymore. Nyra had been forced to put them on when she realized that none of her shoes would fit. She tugged his jacket tighter around her frame, its oversized sleeves hanging past her fingers, and tried not to think about the emptiness of the house she had left behind.

Her stomach growled painfully, but she ignored it. The days she had gone without food had made her body grow weaker. Every step felt heavier, but her determination to survive pushed her forward. She scanned the ground for scraps—anything that could fetch even a single coin for leftovers.

But where could she sell them?

Benzo was gone.

The thought hit her like a punch to the gut, and tears welled up in her eyes. She bit her lip hard, forcing herself to swallow the sob threatening to escape. She couldn’t afford to break down again, not out here. Not now.

The sound of someone crying echoed faintly down the narrow alleyways, cutting through her haze of exhaustion. It was muffled at first, but as Nyra froze and listened, her heart jolted in recognition.

Powder.

She darted down the alley, her shoes scraping against the uneven cobblestones, her breath hitching. Powder’s cries were close, frantic, and pained. Nyra’s chest tightened. She hadn’t been sure—hadn’t dared to hope—but now…

“Blue!” she rasped, her voice hoarse and raw from days of silence.

The sound bounced off the walls, but Powder didn’t answer. Nyra spun around, her eyes darting desperately, her ears straining to catch the direction of the cries. She stumbled past a narrow turn, then skidded to a halt. Her heart raced as she doubled back, peering into the shadowed alley she’d missed.

There she was.

Powder sat slumped against a crate, her small frame trembling as she clutched her head with both hands, her fists banging against her temples. Her sobs echoed in the confined space, filled with anguish that tore at Nyra’s heart.

Nyra dropped to her knees beside her without thinking, her body moving on instinct. She pulled Powder's hands away from her head, kissing the knuckles tenderly and cradling her close.

“Baby Blue!” she choked out, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re alive!”

Powder’s head jerked up, her tear-streaked face twisting in disbelief. Her wide, watery eyes locked on Nyra, and for a heartbeat, she froze.

“Nyra?” she whispered, her voice cracking. Her lips quivered as fresh tears spilled over her cheeks.

Then, with a wailing sob, Powder lunged at her, throwing her arms around Nyra’s neck and burying her face in her chest. “You’re alive!” she cried, her words muffled and frantic. “You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive!”

Nyra’s arms wrapped around Powder just as tightly, her fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt as though she were afraid Powder might slip away. She buried her face in Powder’s wild blue hair, breathing in deeply, desperate to ground herself in the reality of this moment.

“You’re here,” Nyra croaked, her voice trembling. “You’re really here.”

Nyra pulled back slightly, her fingers trembling as they combed through Powder’s hair. It was softer than she remembered, its wild blue strands longer now, adorned with more charms and beads. Her breath caught as she took in the changes—the slight curve of Powder’s jaw, the way her features had sharpened just enough to hint at the woman she was becoming.

“You’ve grown,” Nyra rasped, her voice cracked and unsteady. Each word came slowly, painfully, but she pushed through. “We... we have so much to catch up on.”

Powder’s tear-streaked face brightened with a small, shaky smile. She nodded, her lips parting to speak, but then she froze mid-thought. Her eyes widened as if struck by a realization.

“You…” Her voice was barely a whisper. “You can speak?”

Nyra blinked and then smiled sheepishly, her cheeks warming. “Y-yeah,” she croaked out, the sound scratchy but undeniable. Clearing her throat, she cringed at the ache it brought. “It’s... it’s new.”

For a moment, there was only silence, then Powder let out a delighted squeal. “You can talk!” she cried, throwing her arms around Nyra again. Her embrace was fierce, nearly knocking Nyra off balance. “You have to tell me everything. Everything! How? When? Oh, Janna, Nyra!”

Nyra couldn’t help but laugh—a rasping, fragile sound—as she returned the hug. Her arms wrapped tightly around Powder’s smaller frame, and she closed her eyes, savoring the moment, letting it chase away the shadows of the past few days.

But then Powder pulled away, her expression shifting. She stared at the ground, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. “I... I thought I killed you too,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Nyra’s brows furrowed. “Killed me?” she asked softly, confusion flickering across her face.

Before Powder could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed in the narrow alley. A commanding voice cut through the air like a blade.

“Jinx!”

A tall, sharp-featured man with one corrupted eye stood at the alley’s entrance, his voice dripping with authority and worry. Nyra stiffened instantly, her shoulders going rigid.

Powder’s eyes lit up the moment she saw him. “Silco!” she cried, her voice high-pitched with joy. She darted toward him, throwing her arms around his waist and clinging tightly. Her sobs turned to breathless, excited chatter as she buried her face against his chest.

“You won’t believe it!” she exclaimed, looking up at him with wide, shining eyes. “I found her! Her! Nyra! She’s one of the friends I told you about, the ones I… I lost. She’s here!” Powder’s words tumbled out in a rush, barely pausing for breath as she waved an arm toward Nyra. “You have to meet her—really meet her!”

Silco stiffened under Powder’s grip, his hand hesitantly patting her back as he processed her outburst. His gaze, however, was locked on Nyra. His single sharp eye swept over her, taking in her too-thin frame draped in clothes that didn’t seem to belong.

His chest tightened as his gaze fell to her feet—Grudge’s shoes. The laces were hastily knotted, and the soles were too large, awkwardly clunking against the ground. They bore the distinct sign they all used to identify each other - his initial, scribbled into the leather. An 'E'. 

A memory flooded his mind unbidden:

Him and Grudge in the fissures, the pair of them bantering over whose boots could endure the jagged rocks better. Grudge, with that crooked grin, had insisted Silco’s boots would wear through in a week. Silco had scoffed, telling him he could always buy a decent pair with the coin he wasted on nonsense. Then Vander, ever the instigator, told them that neither of their shoes could hold a candle to his.

The memory felt as sharp as broken glass. 

“Silco!” Powder’s voice broke through the haze, pulling him back. She tugged at his coat insistently, babbling on about how Nyra was alive, how she had to come with them.

His hand drifted to her head, patting it absently, though his eyes remained on Nyra. “Mm-hmm,” he murmured, nodding vaguely, the words Powder had said barely registering.

Nyra took a small step forward, her face contorted in a grimace. “R-really-” she rasped, her voice raw. “There's n-no need-”

Silco blinked, startled. Powder ignored Nyra's protests and turned, her sharp gaze snapping up to him. “You said yes!” she declared firmly, crossing her arms in a gesture that dared him to go back on it.

He swallowed hard, forcing a thin smile to his lips. “We’ll… see,” he said cautiously, his tone clipped and distant.

Powder’s jaw dropped. “You said yes!” she snapped, stomping her foot and glaring up at him with fiery determination.

Silco sighed, his shoulders sagging. His eye flicked over Nyra once more—Grudge’s shoes, Grudge’s jacket. The faint shimmer of golden scars. He pursed his lips tightly, looking down at Powder with an exasperated expression. “We’ll figure something out.”

Powder grinned triumphantly, her hand slipping into Nyra’s as she turned back to her. “See? I knew he would say yes!”

Nyra’s faint smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she shook her head wearily. Her throat ached with every croaked word. “T-there’s… no need,” she stammered, her voice still a shadow of itself. She raised her hands in a placating gesture, backing up a step.

Powder’s face fell, her excitement dimming for just a moment before she straightened and shot Nyra a determined look. “You’re coming, Nyra,” she said, crossing her arms. “You can share my room. We’ll make it just like it was before!”

Nyra’s eyes flicked warily to Silco, who stood silent, his corrupt eye studying her with unnerving intensity. She held his gaze, and a guarded light burned in her expression—a look born of suspicion, survival.

Silco’s eye trailed down to the faint, golden scar circling her throat, and something clicked. His expression shifted imperceptibly as the memories flooded back.

Grudge’s ward, Nyra. He’d seen her limp body under the rubble the night of the explosion. His goons had hauled her to the Doctor under his orders—a corpse for experimentation, nothing more.

Yet here she stood, alive, an anomaly, a miracle—or a tool. Silco’s lips curved into a smile, as sharp as it was deliberate. “Of course,” he said, his tone suddenly warm. “It would be an honor to take little Nyra under my wing.”

Nyra stiffened at his words, her smile faltering as her eyes darted around, searching for an escape. She raised her hands again, as if to protest, but her voice caught in her throat.

Powder’s gaze softened, a sheen of hurt passing over her features. “Please, Nyra,” she said, her voice trembling. “We’re all that’s left. You have to come home.”

Nyra froze under the weight of Powder's words. All that's left. So everyone in her family was dead.

She took her time to adjust to the information and her eyes snagged on Powder's unguarded expression. Her heart—or whatever beat inside her chest now—ached as Powder looked at her with wide, tearful eyes. Slowly, Nyra’s shoulders slumped, and her guarded gaze shuttered.

She nodded, the motion heavy with resignation. “O-okay,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Powder squealed with delight and threw her arms around Nyra, hugging her tightly. Nyra winced at the pressure but let her hands rise to return the hug. Over Powder’s shoulder, her eyes met Silco’s once more.

The look they shared was electric—his calculated, predatory; hers cautious, uncertain. Neither broke the connection until Nyra buried her face in Powder’s hair, her arms tightening around the girl she considered a little sister.

---

The house stood nestled in the heart of the Undercity’s promenade, its weathered brick exterior like a soft light against the grime and gloom surrounding it. Unlike the decrepit shells that made up much of the Undercity, this house seemed cared for. The windows were clear enough to catch faint glimpses of the warm, amber light glowing from within. Metal railings framed the small balcony on the second floor, their edges slightly rusted but sturdy. The door, painted a muted teal, bore scratches and dents, yet its brass handle shone as though polished.

Powder bounded ahead, entering the house, her boots clanging against the creaky stairs as she dragged Nyra behind her. The staircase twisted upward inside the house, its dark wood polished enough to catch the reflection of the dim light filtering through the windows.

Silco lingered at the bottom of the stairs, his arms folded neatly behind his back. His face wore a tight, pleasant smile, but his eyes were cold and unreadable, like the surface of still water concealing its depths. As Nyra hesitated on the steps, her eyes flicked back to him. Their gazes locked—hers filled with trepidation, his feigning warmth.

Powder tugged her arm impatiently, breaking the moment, and Nyra let herself be pulled upstairs. Silco remained at the base of the staircase, his smile dropping the instant they disappeared from view. He turned on his heel and stalked toward his office, his boots echoing faintly against the tiled floor.

At the top of the stairs, Powder led Nyra into a room bursting with color and chaos. The walls were plastered with haphazard drawings, some overlapping, others curling at the corners. The drawings depicted scenes both mundane and haunting—friends playing together, fantastical creatures, and explosions rendered in jagged crayon streaks.

The furniture was mismatched but functional: a simple bed with a quilted blanket, a low table strewn with tools, and a compact workstation against one wall. The workstation was clearly a recent addition, its surface gleaming as if newly assembled. Shelves above it held an assortment of screws, wires, and small, half-built gadgets.

Nyra’s gaze lingered on the drawings. She stepped closer, her fingers ghosting over the paper as she took in the familiar faces among the childish lines—Mylo’s wide grin, Claggor’s steady expression, Vi’s fiery determination. Her throat tightened, and she turned toward Powder.

“Blue…” she began, her voice rasping. “About that night…”

Powder froze mid-step, her cheer dimming for the briefest moment. Her shoulders stiffened, and she quickly busied herself at the workstation, pretending to inspect a gadget. “Oh, look!” she chirped, forcing enthusiasm. “Silco had his guys build this for me. Cool, right?”

Nyra sighed, her heart sinking. She knew avoidance when she saw it. “It’s… really nice,” she said quietly, deciding to let the subject rest for now.

Before she could say more, the door swung open abruptly. Two hulking men lumbered in, each carrying a large sack. They dumped the bags unceremoniously on the bed, clothes spilling out in a mess of muted colors and various sizes.

“This is for her,” one grunted before turning to leave without waiting for a response.

Nyra offered them a stiff smile and a small wave. “Thanks,” she said hoarsely.

When they were gone, Nyra turned to Powder. “So… what exactly does... Silco do to afford all this?” she asked, gesturing to the clothes and the new workstation.

Powder shrugged nonchalantly, her gaze darting toward the floor. “He takes care of the Undercity,” she said, her tone airy. “You know, makes sure things run smooth, keeps everyone safe…”

She trailed off, her expression clouding. Her fingers fidgeted with the charm dangling from her necklace, her mind clearly drifting elsewhere. “After Va—” She stopped abruptly, her breath hitching.

Nyra stepped closer, concern flashing across her face. “Blue?”

Powder’s face transformed in an instant, her lips curving into a bright, forced smile. “Anyway!” she said, her voice unnaturally cheery. “He has big plans for the Undercity. You’ll see. It’s gonna be great!”

Nyra nodded slowly, though her chest ached. She could see the cracks beneath Powder’s facade, the haunted look she tried to mask.

As Powder turned back to her workstation, Nyra’s thoughts churned. It was clear Powder was still holding on to so much pain, so much guilt. She would find a way to help her, to get her to talk about it someday.

For now, though, she stayed quiet, watching Powder with a heavy heart and vowing silently to help her heal.

---

They had spent the night tangled together on Powder’s small bed, the world outside feeling like a distant dream. Powder clung to Nyra like a lifeline, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist, her face buried in Nyra’s chest. She slept fitfully, her body trembling every so often as her breaths hitched, the echoes of unseen nightmares clawing at her.

Nyra couldn’t find rest herself. Her eyes remained open for hours, staring at the cracked ceiling as her fingers gently traced soothing patterns along Powder’s back. Over and over, she signed love—in Powder’s hair, along her trembling shoulders, across the small hands that had created gadgets, hugged friends, and threw rocks at rich Pilties.

When the tremors became too much, Nyra pressed a kiss to Powder’s forehead, her lips lingering there like a silent prayer. She held her closer, her arms a shield against the world, and pressed their foreheads together, her thoughts spinning into pleas. Please, Janna, let her rest. Let her find peace from the horrors that haunt her.

The night stretched on, heavy and still, but Nyra didn’t care. Every second spent comforting Powder felt like a small offering to undo the pain she had endured. Even as sleep finally claimed her in the early hours, Nyra’s hand remained protectively against Powder’s back, her fingers stilling mid-sign, as if even in slumber, she refused to let go.

---

The morning light filtered through the narrow windows, casting a muted glow over the chaotic bedroom.

Nyra stirred awake, her body aching from the tension of a restless sleep. Powder was draped over her, clutching Nyra like a lifeline, her fingers knotted into Nyra’s shirt.

As Powder began to stir, Nyra froze, watching her closely. Powder’s eyes fluttered open, and she looked up at Nyra with a sleepy smile. “Morning…” she mumbled, her voice muffled by sleep.

Nyra smiled softly, her voice cracking as she whispered, “Morning, Baby Blue.”

After dressing up, Powder jumped around the room as if having swallowed a rabbit pill.

Powder tugged on Nyra’s hand, practically dragging her out of bed and down the narrow staircase. Nyra stumbled after her, barely managing to shove her feet into the too-large shoes she’d been wearing.

The moment they entered the dining room, Nyra's eyes darted around, taking in the interior. The place was warm with the scent of tea and fresh bread. The walls, though worn, had been painted a deep maroon, and the furniture was sturdy oak, polished to a warm sheen. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, its crystals dulled by a thin layer of dust but still managing to reflect shards of light across the room.

Silco sat at the table, his posture composed, a pen in one hand and a steaming cup of black coffee in the other. Papers were scattered before him, filled with neat, precise handwriting and the occasional bold signature. He glanced up when they entered, his scarred face breaking into a carefully controlled smile.

“Good morning, little Jinx,” he said warmly, his voice carrying a quiet affection that Nyra hadn’t expected.

Powder beamed and rushed to hug him, nearly toppling him from his chair. “Morning!” she chirped before dragging Nyra to a chair beside her.

Nyra sat stiffly, her shoulders tense, but she forced a small smile in Silco’s direction and gave him a polite nod. He returned the gesture, his gaze measured but polite, before returning to his coffee and documents.

Powder, ever the ball of energy, immediately began piling food onto Nyra’s plate. Scraps of bread, a sliver of cheese, even a slightly overripe fruit she dug up from the pile of colorful fruits on the table. “Eat up!” she said brightly, nudging the plate toward Nyra. “You look like you’ll blow away in the wind.”

Nyra chuckled hoarsely, the sound scraping her throat and making her wince. She coughed lightly, pressing a hand to her chest, and signed, "Slow. I’ll take it slow". 

Powder noticed and nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, slow! But eat! You need it!” She stuffed a piece of bread into her own mouth, crumbs scattering across the table as she talked around it.

Silco glanced up from his papers, his eyes catching on Nyra’s hesitant movements. He sipped his coffee, his expression neutral, though Nyra caught a flicker of something softer when his gaze shifted to Powder.

“So, Nyra,” Powder began, her words muffled through a mouthful of bread, “guess what? We’re visiting this doctor today! He’s like something straight out of a horror story—totally creepy, but Silco says he’s brilliant, and he—”

“Jinx,” Silco interjected, clearing his throat. The interruption was calm but firm, and it froze Powder mid-sentence.

She pouted, crossing her arms. “She’s family,” she insisted, her tone indignant. “You should trust her.”

Nyra smiled, placing a gentle hand over Powder’s. “It’s okay,” she said quietly, her voice still hoarse but steady. “Trust is earned with time.”

Her eyes flicked to Silco, who was watching her with a guarded expression, his face unreadable. Their gazes locked for a moment before Nyra looked away, turning her attention to the food Powder had generously piled onto her plate.

Powder kept talking, her words tumbling out in a chaotic stream as she waved her hands animatedly. Nyra ate slowly, her body still adjusting to the act of eating again. Despite herself, she smiled as she watched Powder chatter, her energy a bittersweet reminder of the girl Nyra used to know.

Out of the corner of her eye, Nyra caught Silco’s expression softening as he watched Powder. A faint smile curved his lips, a quiet affection glinting in his sharp gaze. When Nyra looked toward him, though, he quickly schooled his expression back into something more neutral, focusing again on his papers.

Nyra dropped her gaze to her plate, her thoughts churning. There was so much to unpack—so much to say, to ask. But for now, she let herself enjoy the time that she had the pleasure of spending with Powder.
---

The cold, damp air of the Undercity nipped at their faces as Nyra, Powder and Silco stepped into the winding streets, the faint scent of oil and rust hanging heavy. Powder walked ahead, her eyes alight, pointing at every turn and corner, every change and addition made since Silco's reign began. Her words tumbled out in rapid succession, her voice animated and unguarded.

Nyra followed with a faint smile, nodding at Powder’s explanations while her mind pieced together the fragments of time. From what she gathered, almost a year had passed since the explosion. The weight of it pressed down on her shoulders—what had happened to the others? Were their bodies found? Had anyone else survived? She shuddered at the memory of that fateful night, her thoughts spiraling until Powder’s voice snapped her back.

“Come on!” Powder chirped, tugging at Nyra’s sleeve.

Nyra blinked and allowed herself to be pulled into the depths of the sump. The paths grew narrower, the air thicker, until they reached a hulking factory. Smoke billowed lazily from its chimneys, and the sound of whirring machines and hissing steam spilled out from within.

Silco pushed the heavy metal door open, the groan of its hinges echoing ominously. Nyra stepped inside, her stomach knotting. The factory was a labyrinth of machinery and conveyor belts, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the walls.

And then she saw him.

The doctor.

Nyra froze, her breath catching in her throat. He stood near a cluttered workstation, his back hunched, the burn scars twisting grotesquely along the side of his face. His eyes lifted and met hers, cold and clinical. For a moment, time seemed to stop.

“Doctor,” Silco’s voice broke the silence. Nyra flinched slightly as he stepped into the room, his calm tone filling the space.

“I trust there’s been progress on that?” Silco asked, his gaze sharp as it flicked to Powder, who was already poking at a piece of scrap metal nearby. His features softened, and he patted Powder’s head fondly. “Show Nyra around, little Jinx,” he said. “But don’t touch anything important—until I’m back.”

Powder beamed and nodded eagerly, grabbing Nyra’s hand and tugging her away before she could say anything. Nyra glanced back over her shoulder, her heart pounding in her chest as the doctor’s cold gaze followed her. Silco and the doctor exchanged a brief glance, the kind that spoke volumes in silence.

The doctor bowed towards her slightly, gesturing for Silco to follow him deeper into the factory. The door to the inner chambers hissed shut behind them, cutting off Nyra’s view of their exchange.

Powder chattered on as they wandered the factory floor, pointing out gadgets and half-finished inventions with childlike wonder. Nyra struggled to focus, her thoughts spiraling. Her hand drifted to her chest, resting over the contraption embedded in her heart. The faint hum of its mechanism seemed to grow louder in her ears as her mind raced.

The connection was undeniable. This doctor—this man—had brought her back. But for what? Why was Silco so closely tied to him? And what did he mean by “progress”?

Nyra’s eyes flicked to the door Silco and the doctor had disappeared through. A chill ran down her spine as she gulped, her fingers clutching the fabric of her shirt like it could somehow protect her from the two men hiding somewhere in this factory's underbelly.

---

The factory doors creaked as Silco emerged, his cool demeanor unshaken. He gestured to Powder and Nyra with a slight tilt of his head, signaling that it was time to leave. Nyra felt the doctor’s gaze trailing her as she hurried after them, her pulse quickening as they stepped out into the thick undercity air.

Silco’s footsteps were slow and deliberate as he walked, Powder cheerfully bouncing along beside him. He glanced back at the two girls, his sharp eyes briefly settling on Nyra before a wide, disarming smile spread across his face as he turned to Powder.

"Why don’t you run along to the bakery, Little Jinx?” he suggested, his voice warm and encouraging. “Nyra must have missed sweets like that after all this time.”

Powder’s eyes lit up, and she nodded enthusiastically, turning to Nyra with a grin. "I’ll get you something really good!"

Nyra forced a smile, her gaze hardening the moment Powder wasn’t looking. Her glare burned into Silco’s back as they walked. When he turned to face her, her expression instantly shifted into a polite mask, hiding the unease roiling within.

Powder disappeared down the winding alleys, shouting "I’ll be quick!"

As soon as she was out of earshot, Nyra turned to Silco, her voice low and raspy. “What’s going on?”

Silco raised a hand, cutting her off with an effortless gesture. “Patience,” he murmured.

Powder’s footsteps echoed as she returned moments later, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I don't have any money.” 

Silco sighed, his demeanor indulgent as he reached into his coat, withdrawing a small pouch of coins. He handed it to her with a faint smile. Powder took it eagerly and darted down the alley.

Silco exhaled softly, watching her go before turning to Nyra. “Walk with me,” he said, his tone smooth but leaving little room for refusal.

Nyra hesitated before falling into step beside him, her body stiff and rigid. The silence stretched until Silco finally broke it.

“I know who you are,” he said, his tone casual, as though discussing the weather.

Nyra’s heart skipped a beat, and she looked up at him sharply.

“You’re Grudge’s daughter,” he continued, not sparing her a glance. “Or as close to one as he had.”

Nyra blinked, her lips parting in surprise, but he kept talking.

“You died,” he stated matter-of-factly, his voice devoid of sympathy.

“I know,” she said softly, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

He nodded, as though her acknowledgment was expected. “The doctor told me about your… abilities,” he said, his eyes flickering toward her.

Nyra frowned, shaking her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Silco stopped abruptly, forcing her to turn to him. His eyes bore into hers, unflinching. “Jinx cares about you,” he said, his tone dropping to something colder, sharper. “And I am not the charitable type. But I am willing to make an exception for her sake—so long as you behave.”

Nyra’s eyes narrowed, her arms crossing defensively. “I would never hurt her,” she snapped, her voice cracking from the strain.

A faint chuckle escaped Silco’s lips. “I know,” he replied smoothly, his tone almost amused.

He stepped closer, studying her reaction with unsettling precision. “Let’s not waste time,” he said. “I have an offer. You live here with Jinx and me. You’ll have food, shelter, and everything you need. But in exchange, the doctor will monitor you. Weekly. Nothing invasive, of course.”

Nyra’s blood ran cold, her chest tightening.

“And if I refuse?” she asked, her voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

Silco’s expression darkened, his voice soft but cutting. “Then you’ll never see her again.”

Nyra stared at him, horror flooding her features. She looked down at her feet, the too-large shoes flopping slightly as she shifted her weight. She breathed in shakily, her mind racing.

“Fine,” she said at last, her voice tight.

Silco nodded, satisfaction flickering across his face. “Good choice.”

He extended a hand toward her.

Nyra hesitated, her gaze flicking between his hand and his eyes. Slowly, reluctantly, she took it, her grip weak and her expression conflicted.

“Don’t worry,” he said as they shook. “You’ll be well taken care of.”

Powder’s voice rang out before Nyra could respond, her small frame barreling toward them with a bag of pastries clutched in her hands. “I got goodies!” she exclaimed, bouncing with excitement.

Nyra managed a faint smile, allowing herself to be dragged away as Powder chattered about eating on the balcony. As they reached the house's entrance, she spared one last glance over her shoulder, meeting Silco’s gaze. He gave her a slight nod before turning away, heading back toward his study.

Chapter Text

Nyra woke before the city. The faint hum of the Undercity’s machinery was muffled, almost gentle in the early hour, like a beast still drowsy from slumber. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and glanced at the kiddo sleeping beside her. Powder was curled into the blankets, her hair a chaotic halo of blue strands. For a moment, Nyra smiled softly. Leaning over, she pressed a small kiss to Powder’s forehead.

“You’re safe,” she whispered, the words catching in her throat like a secret too fragile to speak aloud.

Sliding out of bed, Nyra reached for the bundle of clothes she had tucked into the corner of the room. Grudge’s coat, Grudge’s shirt, Grudge’s shoes—it all still smelled faintly of him, though the scent was fading with each passing day. The clothes Silco had provided sat untouched in a drawer. She wouldn’t wear them. Couldn’t. They weren’t hers.

The shoes, slightly too big, clomped faintly against the floor as she tiptoed down the stairs. She paused at the bottom, scanning her surroundings. Nyra peeked into the dining room. Empty. A quick glance to the living room—also empty. She breathed out, shoulders sagging like a wilting flower. No Silco. Small mercies.

“I suppose you thought I’d forgotten about our arrangement,” a voice cut through the stillness, cool and detached.

Nyra stiffened, her heart thudding against her ribs as she turned to see Silco at the top of the stairs. He was immaculate as always, fixing his cufflinks with meticulous precision. His gaze pinned her like a butterfly to a board, and though he hadn’t moved, he might as well have been already standing in front of her.

“You’re up early,” he remarked, descending the stairs with the grace of someone who never doubted his footing. Each step was deliberate, a reminder of his control over every moment.

“I like mornings,” Nyra mumbled, her attempt at levity falling flat in the icy air between them. “You can pretend the day might actually be good.”

His lips curved slightly, but it wasn’t a smile—it was closer to an acknowledgment of her words, a flicker of interest that disappeared just as quickly. “Shall we?” he said, gesturing toward the door. His tone left no room for discussion.

The chill outside clawed at her cheeks, and Nyra hunched into the trench coat’s oversized lapels, her breath forming pale clouds in the cold. The silence between them stretched, heavy and suffocating. She stared at the uneven stone beneath her feet, the sound of her shoes scuffing against the ground far too loud in the quiet.

After several minutes, she swallowed hard and asked, “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

Silco didn’t stop walking, but his gaze slid toward her briefly, calculating. “That depends,” he said. “What do you hope to gain by asking?”

Nyra faltered, caught off guard by the weight of his response. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Just… answers, I guess.”

“Answers,” he repeated, his voice flat. “Perhaps, in time. For now, you would do well to focus on the task at hand.” His eyes flicked toward her, sharp as broken glass. “Trust is earned.”

He had used her words against her.

Nyra bit back the urge to retort, gripping the trench coat tighter around her shoulders. The sound of their steps echoed off the walls as they entered a quieter part of the Undercity, the dim lights casting long, uneven shadows.

When Silco finally spoke again, his tone was calm but edged with finality. “The doctor will examine you, and when he’s done, we’ll discuss what comes next.”

Nyra swallowed the lump in her throat, her fingers brushing against the coat’s worn fabric. She wasn’t sure if the weight in her chest was fear, anger, or something else entirely. “And if I don’t want to be examined?” she asked quietly.

Silco stopped then, turning to face her fully. His expression was inscrutable, his gaze piercing. “You already agreed to this,” he said, his voice like a blade. “It’s not a matter of want. It’s what must be done.”

Nyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she nodded, her voice small. “Right. Of course.”

He lingered a moment longer, his eyes flickering over her, and then he turned sharply on his heel. “Don’t keep him waiting,” he said over his shoulder as he walked on, his pace never faltering.

As Nyra followed, her fingers found the contraption at her chest, clutching it through the layers of fabric. The chill in the air wasn’t just from the Undercity—it was him.

---

Nyra hesitated at the threshold of the building she knew so well yet wished to erase from her memory. The crumbling cannery loomed like a graveyard of her past, each creak of its rusted structure a haunting echo. She swallowed hard, her breath fogging the chilly air, before stepping inside.

The corridors smelled of salt and decay, their peeling walls weeping rust and moss. She knew the way by heart, though every step felt like trudging through molasses. Finally, she reached it: the Laboratory.

The dim, greenish glow of water refracting through the large window bathed the room in a muted light. Pipes snaked along the walls, hissing intermittently, while the doctor hunched over a cluttered workbench. Syringes, scalpels, and strange instruments she couldn’t name gleamed under the pale, artificial light.

“I’m... here,” she managed to say, though her voice wavered, breaking mid-syllable.

The doctor didn’t respond at first, absorbed in adjusting something metallic. When he finally turned, his expression was calm, clinical. Nyra couldn't suppress the shudder that coursed through her body. She didn't think that she would ever get used to his appearance.

He nodded and gestured to the operating table in the center of the room.

The table’s metal surface gleamed, unnervingly clean, with a small, lumpy pillow set at one end. Nyra stepped closer, her oversized shoes dragging on the floor. Her legs felt like lead as she climbed onto the table and sat stiffly, her hands folding together in her lap. Her thumbs twiddled—a nervous habit she couldn’t quite suppress.

The doctor selected a syringe from the table and approached her. Nyra tensed, the thrumming in her chest quickening.

“Relax,” he said, raising his hands as though calming a spooked animal. “It’s a small shimmer concoction. I want to see if your body reacts.”

Her lips parted to ask what shimmer was, but her voice failed her. She exhaled sharply through her nose, clenching her fists. “What is shimmer?” she rasped at last, her voice hoarse and wary.

“It’s a serum that enhances strength, speed, even size,” the doctor explained. “Highly experimental, of course. But very effective in... the right circumstances. A highly sophisticated version of it courses through your veins already.”

Nyra’s breath hitched as the needle slid into her arm, banishing her panic at the new information, the sting sharper than she anticipated. The liquid burned faintly as it flowed through her veins, mingling with the unfamiliar rhythm of the device in her chest. She grimaced but stayed still, her jaw set tight.

Moments passed. She waited, expecting something—anything. A rush of power, a surge of heat, even pain. But... nothing. Her body felt unchanged.

The doctor, meanwhile, scribbled furiously in his notepad, muttering to himself as he studied her. Finally, he snapped the notebook shut and turned to face her fully.

“As I suspected,” he said, his voice measured. “No form of shimmer, other than the variety integrated into the Electrovascular Reactor, will affect you. The device in your chest regulates everything—your body is... exclusive, so to speak.”

Nyra furrowed her brows, her fingers twitching against her lap. “Exclusive? What does that even mean?”

The doctor didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for another device from the workbench—a small, handheld contraption that crackled faintly with electricity.

Her heart lurched. “What is that?”

The doctor stepped forward, the device in hand, its small frame buzzing faintly with electricity. Nyra’s eyes locked onto it, her chest tightening as he stopped just before her.

“This,” he said, his voice calm and clinical, “will deliver a controlled burst of electricity to the Reactor. The implant in your heart relies on a steady electrical supply to function. Normally, I was constructing an external power source when... well, you revived.”

Nyra blinked, her body stiffening as his words sank in. “So, it wasn’t ready yet?” she asked, her voice a dry whisper.

“Precisely.” His gaze flicked up from the device to her eyes, analytical and impersonal. “I have my theories about why the Reactor operates autonomously, but... let’s test something.”

She nodded stiffly, her breath slow and deliberate.

He pressed the buzzing device against her chest, directly over the implant. A faint whirring sound filled the room as the charge coursed through her.

At first, nothing. Then, a strange sensation blossomed from the Reactor—a warmth, almost pleasant, and oddly familiar. A faint glow caught her attention. She looked down at her arms, gasping softly as pink-gold electricity radiated outward from her chest. The currents danced down her limbs, snaking across her skin in intricate, racing patterns.

Her hands turned this way and that, her wide eyes following the trails of light. “Where is that coming from?” she asked, her voice trembling.

The doctor was scribbling furiously in his notebook, barely glancing up as he replied. “It’s your Electrovascular Reactor channeling the energy. As for how... I have my suspicions, but not a definitive answer. Yet.”

His pen stopped abruptly. He snapped the notebook shut and finally looked at her, his tone turning brisk. “What I do know is that you’ll need to start combat training immediately.”

Nyra’s head snapped up, her eyebrows furrowing deeply. “Combat training?” she echoed, the words hitting her like a slap. “Why? What for?”

The doctor set the device aside, folding his arms. “You could become a sublime weapon—or shield—depending on how you choose to use your abilities.” He let the implication hang for a moment before adding pointedly, “For Jinx.”

Her breath hitched. The idea of being something so destructive—or protective—wrapped itself around her like a suffocating chain. She looked down at her arms again as the electricity faded, absorbing into her skin. The room felt heavier, her thoughts louder.

The doctor continued, undeterred by her silence. “You’ll return here weekly. We’ll channel that energy again, study it, refine it. There’s much to learn.”

Turning back to the cluttered table, he picked up a few small tools and leaned closer to her. “Now, sit still. I need to inspect the Reactor’s condition after that charge.”

Nyra tensed, but she sat obediently as he began prodding at the implant with precise movements. Each click and adjustment made her heart—not the mechanical one—race faster.

“Hm,” he hummed, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Interesting. The Reactor’s unaffected by the charge. Impressive engineering, even by my standards. I must congratulate my ingenuity.” He jotted down more notes, muttering something unintelligible as he worked.

Minutes ticked by before he finally stepped back, checking his watch. “Our hour is up,” he declared, removing his gloves with a crisp snap.

As if on cue, the laboratory door creaked open, and Silco stepped inside, his sharp gaze scanning the room before landing on Nyra.

His gaze lingered on Nyra briefly before shifting to the doctor. Their eyes met, a silent exchange passing between them. Nyra caught it and quickly averted her own eyes, sliding off the operating table with a quiet thud. She smoothed out her oversized shirt, the hem crumpling under her nervous fingers, and stared down at Grudge’s shoes sagging on her feet.

“Well?” Silco asked, his tone clipped, as he stepped further into the room.

The doctor tucked his notebook under his arm, his demeanor as dispassionate as ever. “The Electrovascular Reactor appears to be self-charging,” he began, gesturing toward Nyra without looking at her. “It absorbs and channels electricity much like a brain sending electrical signals through its synapses.”

Silco tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “And what of control?”

The doctor hummed thoughtfully, his eyes briefly darting toward Nyra before focusing back on Silco. “Whether the test subject can direct it herself is... unclear at this stage.” His voice lacked any warmth or regard, clinical in its precision. “I recommend combat training.”

Nyra’s head snapped up, her jaw tightening. “I'm not a test subject!” she muttered, though her words were drowned out as the doctor continued.

“She’ll need proper control of her body,” he said, speaking over her without a second glance. “If she can harness the shimmer coursing through her veins and manipulate the electricity effectively, she may become capable of channeling and using it as she pleases.”

The doctor glanced at her then, the barest flicker of acknowledgment crossing his face before vanishing. “You are a unique case,” he said flatly. “And unique cases require study.”

Silco, ignoring Nyra’s rising anger, nodded once. “Do it,” he said, his tone final.

Nyra’s stomach churned, the weight of the room pressing down on her. Her glare bore into the doctor’s back, but it might as well have been the cold stone walls for all he seemed to care. Silco turned toward the door without another word, his coat sweeping behind him.

“We’re leaving,” he said curtly, glancing over his shoulder at Nyra.

She lingered for a moment, glaring at the tools and notes strewn across the lab table as if they were to blame for her predicament. Then, with a deep breath, she pulled Grudge’s coat tighter around her and followed Silco out into the suffocating chill of the Undercity streets.

---

Nyra tugged at the hem of the tank top, the fabric soft but utterly foreign. Silco’s idea of generosity, she thought sourly, as her gaze flicked to the flowy pants softly grazing her ankles. It was functional, she supposed, but it felt like wearing a stranger's skin. Comfortable flats slid on next, completing the look of someone trying very hard not to feel like herself. 

Across the room, Powder was a whirlwind of energy, bouncing from one foot to the other as if the floor was lava. “You’re gonna be like, so cool, Nyra! Training! Punching people!” she exclaimed, throwing mock punches into the air. Her movements were erratic and wild, all elbows and knees. She grinned wide, her gray eyes sparkling. “You’re like... like a superhero now!”

Nyra’s laugh bubbled out, raspy and warm. She reached out to ruffle Powder’s messy hair as the girl dodged, giggling. “Oh yeah, superhero Nyra. With the magical power of... awkward combat moves and self-deprecating jokes.” 

Powder stopped bouncing and gave her a mock-serious look. “Don’t joke about it. You’re totally gonna be a superhero! Like, you’ll be all pew pew and bam! The bad guys won’t even know what hit them!”

Nyra chuckled, plopping down onto the bed. “Honestly, I’d settle for just being someone who doesn’t scream ‘kick me’ when they walk into a room. Let’s aim for mediocrity before superhero status, okay?”

Powder rolled her eyes dramatically, crossing her arms. “Fine. But you’re still gonna be awesome.”

As the laughter faded, Nyra fiddled with the edge of her pants, her brows knitting together. Her voice came out, soft and coaxing, still warming up, as she glanced at Powder. “Hey... Baby BBlue?”

The girl froze mid-move, spinning to face her. “Yeah?”

Nyra hesitated, her fingers brushing over the fabric. “Why does... Silco call you Jinx?”

The room’s air shifted. Powder’s grin faltered, her hands dropping to her sides. “Oh. Um... it’s... it’s nothing. Just... a nickname.”

Nyra tilted her head, standing and moving to kneel in front of her. She cupped Powder’s cheeks gently, her thumbs brushing over her skin. “Hey,” she murmured, her voice raspy. “You can tell me anything. You know that, right? I’m your safe space. Whatever you share, it’s just between us.”

Powder’s lips trembled, her wide gray eyes locking onto Nyra’s. For a moment, she looked lost, like a little girl wading into a storm she couldn’t escape. “It’s... because V- my sister called me that,” she finally whispered. Her voice cracked. “Before she left me.”

Nyra’s heart twisted. Her brows furrowed, and she cleared her throat, her voice dropped to a soothing, raspy whisper. “Oh, Blue. You’re not a jinx. I’m sure Pink didn’t mean it. She loved you. I know she did.”

But Powder jerked away, shaking her head violently. “No! That’s not true! I—” Her voice broke into a choked sob. “I killed them. All of them.”

Nyra’s breath hitched. “Blue, what do you mean?” she began, her arms reaching out instinctively to pull her into a hug.

But before she could wrap Powder in the safety of her embrace, a sharp knock echoed from the door. Nyra’s head snapped toward it, her body tense. She exhaled through her nose and stood, muttering, “One second.”

She pulled the door open just enough to peer through. A tall, lanky man stood there—one of Silco’s goons, his face a permanent scowl. He sniffed dismissively, looking past her. “Boss says you’re needed. Now.”

Nyra’s eyes narrowed. “Can it wait? There’s something more important happening here.”

The goon’s expression didn’t shift. “Not my call. Boss says now.”

Her fists clenched at her sides. She opened her mouth to argue, but before she could speak, another figure appeared at the end of the hall. Silco.

His sharp eyes flicked to Powder, who was crying softly in the background, and then to Nyra, his expression unreadable. “Go,” he said simply, his voice like steel.

Nyra’s jaw tightened, her teeth grinding. She didn’t trust her voice, so she gave a curt nod, throwing one last glance over her shoulder at Powder. “I’ll be back,” she promised, her voice softening before she stepped into the hall.

The goon fell in step behind her as she marched down the hallway, her pace brisk and her mood sour. The house loomed around her, its shadows longer, colder than before.

Powder's words echoed in her mind. I killed them. All of them.

And the Reactor thrummed faintly in her chest, as if it, too, carried the weight of those words.

---

The door slammed shut behind her with a heavy thud, but Nyra didn’t flinch. Her mind was too preoccupied, the words you’re a treasure, not a jinx circling like a mantra. She would tell Powder that. Later. She clenched her fists as the goon led the way, the air growing colder and sharper the farther they got from the house.

The Undercity stretched around her, an amalgamation of dark corners and flickering neon lights. They walked in silence toward the outskirts, where the hum of activity dimmed and the buildings became smaller, rustier, and forgotten. Ahead, a squat structure loomed, its edges rounded by wear. The goon stopped abruptly in front of it, jerking a thumb toward the door.

“Here.”

Nyra exhaled deeply, trying to push down the last of her simmering frustration. She’d barely begun to process what Powder had said, and now this? With a reluctant nod, she reached for the door handle, hesitating briefly before stepping inside.

The air hit her differently here—damp, metallic, charged. It smelled like sweat, rust, and ambition. A makeshift rink dominated the center of the room, its borders marked by fraying ropes and mismatched poles. Around it, people were training—some working on their punches at hanging bags, others sparring with partners. The dull thud of gloves against flesh and the rhythmic scrape of feet on the floor filled the space.

A voice pulled her from her observations. “Name's Crusher. You the kid Silco sent?”

Nyra turned toward its source: a middle-aged man standing off to the side. He was stocky, with a face that looked like it had been punched a few too many times, but his most notable feature was the empty sleeve pinned at his shoulder. His one remaining hand was crossed over his chest, his sharp eyes scanning her critically.

“Yeah,” Nyra answered, clearing her throat. “That’s me.”

The man grunted, his brow raising skeptically. “You’re supposed to be fourteen? You look like a pipsqueak.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she folded her arms. “I’m here to learn how to fight, not to argue about my height.”

The man chuckled, low and gravelly. “Alright, pipsqueak. Let’s see what you’ve got.” He jerked his head toward a worn dummy positioned near the corner of the building. “Show me what you can do.”

Nyra swallowed, her nerves prickling. With a resigned sigh, she squared up to the dummy, her fists raised awkwardly. She jabbed once. Twice. Then threw a half-hearted cross. Each hit was clumsy, lacking weight. The dummy barely shifted. 

Thoughts of Vi, pink-haired and ferocious, punching street kids left and right, slammed through her mind, causing her to grimace. She shouldn't think about that. Vi was.. gone.

Behind her, the man tutted, the sound cutting like a knife. “Barely even a slap. Who taught you that? A ghost?”

Nyra huffed, the mention of ghosts hitting a sore spot. She spun around to face him. “I told you—I don’t know how to fight. But I can defend.”

The man’s eyebrow arched, a sly smile creeping onto his lips. “That so? Let’s test that out.” He whistled sharply, and a tall, lanky figure emerged from a cluster of trainees.

The girl looked about Nyra’s age, though she was easily a head taller. Her neon-yellow hair caught the dim light, making it seem like a halo of sunlight in the murk of the room. Her lean frame moved with fluid grace, her every step brimming with confidence.

“This is Dandelion,” the man said, gesturing to the girl. “Dandy, give her a warm welcome.”

Dandelion’s grin was infectious as she extended her hand. “Hey. You can call me Dandy.”

“Nyra,” she said, shaking it and managing a small smile.

“Enough chit-chat!” the man barked. “Dandy, show her what you’ve got. Nyra, defend yourself.”

Dandelion’s sunny expression faded as she stepped back, dropping into a fighter’s stance. “Sorry if I hurt you,” she said with a quick wink before lunging forward.

The first punch came fast—too fast. Nyra ducked, her breath hitching as she narrowly avoided it. The second and third followed in rapid succession, but her instincts kicked in, her feet gliding across the floor as she dodged each attack. Dandelion’s kicks were sharp and calculated, but Nyra wove through them like water, her body reacting before her mind could.

“Stop!” the man finally barked, clapping his hand once.

Nyra froze, panting, her hair sticking to her forehead. Dandelion stepped back, lowering her fists, her expression equal parts impressed and amused.

“Well, well,” the man said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “You’re slippery, I’ll give you that. But dodging isn’t enough. If you want to survive out there, you need to learn how to hit back. We’ll focus on that first—clean up your offense, then polish your defense.”

Nyra nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. She hadn’t done terribly. That was something.

Dandelion walked over, her hand outstretched again. “Nice moves, Ny. You’re quick. Let’s see how you are when we go full throttle next time.”

Nyra grinned at the nickname, shaking her hand. “Thanks, Dandy. Let’s find out.”

As their hands dropped, Nyra felt an unexpected lightness in her chest. For the first time in what felt like forever, someone wasn’t treating her like she was broken or disposable. Here, in this rough, loud space, she was just Nyra.

Maybe, she thought as she glanced around the room, living with Silco and following this arrangement wasn’t the worst thing in the world. 

---

Crusher’s gruff voice snapped through the room like a whip. “Keep your arms up, pipsqueak! You drop ‘em, you’re asking to get your teeth knocked out.”

Nyra gritted her teeth, sweat slicking her brow as she adjusted her stance. Her arms rose higher, shaking slightly from the strain. Crusher stood in front of her, holding a long stick like a conductor directing an orchestra of chaos. He jabbed it toward her right elbow, nudging her arm into the proper angle.

“Like this?” she asked, glancing up at him for approval.

He grunted, his one good hand on his hip. “Close enough. Now hit the dummy—correctly this time.”

Nyra huffed out a breath and threw a punch, her knuckles grazing the worn surface of the dummy. It wasn’t pretty, but at least it landed. Crusher barked out another command, and she quickly tried to replicate the movement, this time with a little more force.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Dandelion stretching nearby, her long leg propped effortlessly on a beam. The sight was mesmerizing—Dandy bent forward with the grace of a seasoned acrobat, her arms reaching toward her toes as though her spine was made of liquid. She turned her head, catching Nyra’s eye, and offered an encouraging smile.

Nyra smiled back, her spirits lifting despite the burn in her arms. But the moment was short-lived.

“Eyes on the target, not on Dandy’s circus act!” Crusher snapped, his stick tapping the side of Nyra’s head—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to jar her back to reality.

“Right, sorry!” she stammered, quickly resuming her stance.

Crusher sighed heavily, muttering something about “daydreaming rookies” under his breath. Nyra refocused, throwing another punch at the dummy. This time, her fist connected with a solid thud, and she felt a tiny spark of pride. She wasn’t completely hopeless.

The door to the training space slammed open, stealing everyone’s attention. Nyra turned, her breath catching as a towering figure strode in with purpose. Sevika’s short hair was tied back, exposing faint blue scars etched into her left cheek like lightning. A poncho, slung casually over her left shoulder, swayed as she moved, while a bandolier crisscrossed her chest, vials with pink liquid tucked inside its pockets glinting faintly in the dim light.

Nyra’s gaze locked onto Sevika’s right arm, the only one visible. It was muscular, strong, and intimidating in the best way. She couldn’t help but admire the way it moved with precision, her veins faintly visible beneath tanned skin. 

“Dandelion,” Sevika barked, her voice a husky growl that sent shivers down Nyra’s spine. “Maestro and Nicolai. Let’s go. You’re needed.”

Dandelion and two other trainees exchanged brief glances before hurrying over. Dandy didn’t look the least bit fazed by Sevika’s demanding tone. Instead, she flashed a cheerful wave at Nyra as she followed the others out the door.

Nyra returned the wave with a small, hesitant smile, but her attention quickly snapped back to Crusher when his voice cut through again.

“Hey!” He waved the stick in her direction. “We’re not done, rookie. Save your gawking for later.”

Nyra’s face burned as she snapped back into position, grumbling under her breath. She threw another punch at the dummy, this time a little harder than necessary.

Crusher’s lip twitched, something that might have been the faintest ghost of a smile. “Better,” he said. “Now let’s see if you can keep that up without getting distracted again.”

Nyra smirked faintly as she wiped the sweat from her forehead. Her arms were sore, her legs were shaky, but there was something oddly satisfying about the whole ordeal. Learning to fight felt like regaining a sense of herself, her memories of Vi.

But that was something to unpack later.

---

Nyra sprawled across the bed she shared with Powder, her arms and legs splayed as though she might sink into the thick mattress and vanish. With a tired sigh, she dragged a hand down her face, pulling the skin downward until her lips pursed in an unintentional grimace. She let her hand fall away, her gaze drifting to the workbench cluttered with Powder’s peculiar creations—scraps of metal, twisted wire, and half-assembled gadgets that made no sense to Nyra but clearly held a world of meaning for her younger companion.

Powder wasn’t there. Nyra frowned, propping herself up on an elbow. It had been over an hour since she’d gotten back from training, and still, no sign of her.

The silence of the room was broken by rapid footsteps echoing down the hallway. The door burst open, and Powder stormed in, her cheeks wet with tears and her expression twisted in a mixture of fury and hurt. Before Nyra could react, Powder shoved a chair under the doorknob with an angry scrape and spun around, her chest heaving as though she’d just sprinted a mile.

“Blue—?”

“Jinx, open this door!” Silco’s voice boomed from the hallway, sharp and commanding. The door rattled as he pounded on it. “You’re behaving like a child. Come out so we can talk about this civilly.”

Powder’s face crumpled further, her tears falling faster. She turned to her record player, flicked it on, and twisted the volume knob to its highest setting. Music blared, drowning out Silco’s increasingly irate voice. Powder sat at her workbench, her small hands shaking as they reached for a gadget.

Nyra hesitated, glancing between the door and Powder. She could feel the tension radiating off the girl in palpable waves. Silco’s muffled shouting barely registered over the pounding music, but Nyra dismissed him with a sigh and pulled a chair next to Powder. She sat on it, pulling her feet up on the chair and resting her chin on her knees, watching as Powder’s trembling fingers fumbled over her work.

The tears on Powder’s cheeks shimmered in the dim light. Nyra reached out slowly, brushing her fingertips against one of the streaks. Powder froze, her movements stilled by the gentle touch. Her wide, tear-bright eyes darted to Nyra, who gave her a small, warm smile. 

Without a word, Nyra gestured toward the record player. Powder hesitated but eventually twisted the knob, silencing the room. The absence of noise felt deafening, but Nyra didn’t rush to fill it. Instead, she shifted closer, dropping her feet to the ground and reaching out to take Powder’s hand. She rubbed her thumb over the knuckles in slow, comforting circles.

They sat in silence for a long moment, Nyra’s quiet presence softening the storm that raged inside Powder. Eventually, the younger girl broke. A choked sob wracked her frame, followed by another, and another, until she was trembling and crying openly. Nyra pulled her close, tucking Powder’s small body against her chest. She whispered soothing nonsense, stroking her hair and cooing softly until the sobs began to subside.

Sniffling, Powder finally spoke, her voice barely audible. “I’m a jinx.”

Nyra’s brow furrowed as she pulled back slightly, cupping Powder’s tear-streaked face in her hands. “No,” she said firmly, her tone soft. “You’re not a jinx. You’re a treasure, Blue. A smart, beautiful, brilliant treasure.”

Powder’s lip trembled, her eyes searching Nyra’s face desperately. “You don’t understand. You don’t know what I’ve done.”

Nyra’s hands stayed steady, her thumbs brushing over Powder’s cheeks. “Then tell me,” she said softly. “Help me understand.”

Powder sniffled, her breath hitching as she stared at her trembling hands. “I killed everyone,” she whispered, her voice breaking like glass. “I killed Vander, Mylo, Claggor... and I thought I killed you. I made my sister leave, and that killed her too.”

Nyra’s heart clenched. She didn’t speak, didn’t move, simply waited. She knew this wasn’t the moment to interrupt.

“I still hear them, Nyra,” Powder continued, her small hands rising to clamp over her ears as though to block out the phantom voices. “Mylo... he’s always there, whispering these horrible things. Telling me I’m useless. A failure. A jinx.” Her voice cracked as she spoke the last word, tears spilling anew. “Claggor... he’s softer. Kinder. He tells me it’s okay, that I didn’t mean to. And... and my sister...”

Powder’s lips trembled violently. “She’s the only one who can pull me out when I’m... drowning in all of it.” She lowered her hands slowly, her haunted eyes meeting Nyra’s. “I used to beg to hear your voice in my head,” she said timidly, her expression both raw and tentative, as if afraid of being dismissed. “Not really your voice, but the one I imagined you’d have. Before, when you couldn’t talk.”

Nyra’s throat tightened. Powder’s tears fell faster, streaking her cheeks as she went on, “But I couldn't. You wouldn't come to me. So I imagined you. The thought of you would... it would ground me. Pull me back when it got bad. I think... I think I broke that too.” Her voice crumbled, and she fell into Nyra’s chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

Nyra froze for a moment, Powder’s confession sinking into her bones like an icy weight. The words I caused the explosion echoed in her head, the gravity of the admission dawning on her. Memories of that night slammed into her mind with full force. Burning flesh, crumbling walls, the weight of rubble crushing her body, the faint wheeze of her punctured lungs as she fought to breathe.

Slowly, she glanced down at the trembling girl in her arms, who looked up at her now with eyes wide and filled with fear—fear of rejection, of anger, of being truly alone.

Nyra snapped out of it. She knew she could never blame this bright, sweet child.

Nyra’s lips curved into a soft, understanding smile. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms tightly around Powder, her fingers tracing soothing patterns on her back. As she hugged her close, she signed the word for forgiveness on Powder’s back with steady, deliberate movements.

“You didn’t mean to hurt us,” Nyra whispered against her hair. “You were just trying to help. I know you didn’t want any of this.”

Powder let out a choked sob, burying her face deeper into Nyra’s chest. The storm within her began to quiet as Nyra continued to hold her, her warmth and words an anchor in the pain that she was drowning in.

After a long moment, Powder pulled back slightly, her red-rimmed eyes meeting Nyra’s. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice timid but sincere. She hesitated before adding, “I want you to know my real name. The name I had before... Jinx.”

Nyra nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line at the mention of the name that Silco insisted on calling her. Powder’s lips moved, the word barely audible as she whispered, “Powder.”

A bright, genuine smile broke across Nyra’s face. “That’s a beautiful name,” she said warmly. “It suits you.”

But Powder shook her head vehemently, her brows knitting together. “Please don’t call me that,” she pleaded. “Call me Jinx. I don’t deserve to be Powder anymore.”

Nyra sighed softly, her heart aching at the weight of Powder’s guilt. She would have to help her grow out of it, accept the fact that she wasn't a Jinx.

All in due time.

“I’ll make you a deal,” she said gently. “I’ll keep calling you Blue. That’s my name for you. But thank you for trusting me enough to tell me your name.”

Powder—Jinx—nodded reluctantly, her lips twitching in a faint smile at the mention of her nickname.

Nyra stood and gestured toward the door, where the chair was still braced under the knob. “Now, let’s deal with the boss man, huh?”

Powder sighed dramatically but got up and removed the chair, dragging it aside with an exaggerated huff. She cracked the door open, gazing out into the corridor.

Silco stood there, his sharp eyes locking onto her tear-streaked face. He stepped forward, but Nyra was already on her feet, her jaw tight.

She walked out of the room without a word, brushing past Silco with a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Once in the hallway, she sat down cross-legged against the wall, resting her arms on her knees. The door closed behind her, and she could hear Silco’s voice from inside, low and measured, though she couldn’t make out the words.

The minutes dragged. Nyra fidgeted with the hem of her pants, her mind whirling. Finally, the door creaked open. Silco stepped out, his usually unflappable expression giving way to mild surprise when he saw her waiting.

“You’re still here,” he remarked, his tone carefully neutral.

Nyra stood, dusting herself off as she shrugged. “Where else would I be?” she replied lightly, brushing past him and into the room.

Powder was seated at her workbench, her shoulders relaxed, and her hands deftly working on a small gadget. She looked up briefly as Nyra entered, her face calm and even... happy.

Nyra exhaled slowly, the knot in her chest loosening as she sat on the chair beside Powder. The space was tight, but she squeezed in with a playful grin.

Powder grumbled halfheartedly. “There’s no room for you here.”

“Room is overrated,” Nyra quipped, her grin widening as she leaned in and bumped Powder’s shoulder.

Powder giggled—a soft, musical sound that seemed to light up the dim room. “You’re terrible at this,” she teased as Nyra tried to hand her a screwdriver but dropped it instead, the clatter echoing loudly.

“Terrible?” Nyra gasped, clutching her chest in mock horror. “You wound me, Blue. Deeply.”

Powder rolled her eyes but laughed, the sound bubbling over as she leaned into Nyra and hugged her impulsively. 

The sound of laughter drifted into the hallway, where Silco had paused just out of sight. He peered into the room, his sharp gaze softening as he took in the scene: Powder’s laughter, Nyra’s gentle teasing, the warmth between the two.

The next morning, a second workbench appeared in their room, placed beside Powder’s own. Nyra ran her fingers over the polished wood with a surprised laugh, looking at Powder, who shrugged as though it were no big deal.

Silco didn’t mention it. He didn’t need to. The sight of the two girls giggling together as they worked on gadgets later that day told him all he needed to know.

Chapter Text

Nyra wiped sweat from her brow, tossing the towel over her shoulder as she walked toward Crusher. He folded his arm over his chest, his eyes narrowing as he gave her a once-over.

“You’ve been improving,” he said gruffly, the hint of approval buried deep in his voice. “But you still lean too much on defense. You gotta learn how to hit back. If you’re dodging forever, you’re just waiting to lose.”

Nyra chuckled, a grin spreading across her face. “Yeah, yeah. Attack more. Got it.” She winked at him playfully. “But if I attack too much, what are you gonna yell at me about?”

Crusher’s scowl deepened, but there was no heat behind it. “Keep it up, smart mouth, and I’ll make you spar with two people next time.”

Nyra laughed, backing away with her hands raised in surrender. She was about to grab her bag when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Sevika was a few feet away, effortlessly balancing on her right arm while doing pushups. Her left arm stayed hidden under her poncho, the faint blue scars on her cheek catching the dim light.

Nyra found herself staring, her gaze following the line of Sevika’s muscular arm as she pushed herself up and down. When Sevika finished, she reached for her water bottle, tossing it back like it was nothing, then slung her bandolier over her shoulder and stalked toward the exit.

“Earth to Nyra, the ogling ogre!”

Nyra jumped as Dandelion threw her arms around her from behind, squeezing her tightly and jabbing her ribs with sharp fingers.

Over the past six months, Dandelion had become Nyra’s closest friend—aside from Powder, naturally. She was the one person Nyra trusted enough to invite into her world, a confidante who shared her love of music, brawling, and the occasional bout of mischief. Though Nyra still couldn’t sing and practiced quietly on her own, she found joy in listening to Dandy’s lilting serenades.

“Dandy!” Nyra squealed, twisting to free herself. “Stop, stop—gah! You’re worse than a mosquito!”

Dandelion cackled, spinning Nyra around with ease. “Where are we going today, oh queen of punches-that-barely-land?”

Nyra finally wrestled out of her grip, tugging her towel back into place and glaring at Dandelion with mock indignation. “First of all, I’m getting better! Crusher said so. And second, I was not ogling anyone, so don’t start.”

“Oh, you totally were,” Dandelion teased, her bright neon-yellow hair bouncing as she poked Nyra in the shoulder.

Nyra opened her mouth to argue, but Crusher’s bark cut across the room.

“Enough, you two! Training’s over. Get outta here before I find something else for you to do.”

Dandelion saluted him with exaggerated flair. “Yes, sir! But only because we’re so scared of you.”

Crusher rolled his eyes, but his smirk betrayed his amusement.

The humid Undercity air greeted the two girls as they stepped out, thick with the mingling scents of rust, oil, and smoke. The streets shimmered with the familiar glow of neon lights reflecting off slick grime, casting the familiar otherworldly glow that seemed to pulse with the city's lifeblood. Nyra barely registered the sights, her thoughts adrift. Half a year had slipped by so quickly, blurring the edges of her once-tense relationship with Silco. Somewhere along the way, the icy hostility between them thawed into an uneasy camaraderie, then—surprisingly—into something resembling affection.

That shift crystallized on her fifteenth birthday. Silco had expressed it in his typically detached way, calling her indispensable. The word had lingered in her mind ever since. She still wasn’t sure if his sentiment was tied to her uncanny ability to channel electricity or something deeper. But what she did know was this: the man who had once felt like a captor now regarded her with something like... fondness.

Her ribs ached from Dandelion’s poking, but her heart felt lighter after training.

“So,” Dandelion started, throwing an arm around Nyra’s shoulder as they walked. “Where to now? I need food, and maybe a drink if you’re paying.”

Nyra snorted. “I’m not paying. But I could be convinced to borrow something for you.”

“Now you’re speaking my language.”

---

The walk to Silco’s house on the Promenade was lively, Dandelion’s chatter filling the air as they weaved through the Undercity streets.

“You’ll have to catch me up on what your newest fantasy about our brutish brute is,” Dandelion teased, nudging Nyra’s shoulder.

Nyra rolled her eyes but didn’t respond, her smirk betraying her amusement.

As the towering silhouette of the house came into view, Dandelion let out a low whistle. “Man, I’ll never get used to this place. Who needs such a big house down here? Feels like a crime against good sense.”

Nyra shrugged. “Guess you’d rather I lived in the shack behind the scrapyard?”

“Hey, don’t knock the shack. It had personality.”

They entered the house, and no sooner had Nyra crossed the threshold than quick footsteps echoed from the staircase. Powder barreled down the steps, flinging herself into Nyra’s arms with the force of a small missile.

“Nyra!” she squealed, clutching her tightly.

Nyra giggled, hugging Powder close. “Hey, cute little bug. Miss me already?”

Powder pulled back with a pout. “You’ve been gone forever. And you smell like sweat. Hi, Dandelion!”

“Hey, kid,” Dandelion greeted, waving as she leaned casually against the wall.

Powder beamed before darting into the living room, where Silco stood by a desk, studying a map. He spared a fleeting, reluctant smile for Nyra, the expression melting away as his cold gaze settled on Dandelion.

Dandelion smirked at him, unfazed. “Pleasure as always, Big Boss.”

Silco didn’t dignify that with a response, turning his attention back to the map as the two girls headed upstairs.

Inside her room, Nyra tossed her training bag onto the bed and opened the wardrobe. It was hard not to notice how much had changed in the six months since she’d started living here. At first, Silco’s gifts—the neatly tailored clothes, the workbench he’d bought to match Powder’s, the bathroom he’d had constructed just for her—felt like traps. Now, they were familiar comforts, things she’d begrudgingly allowed herself to enjoy.

Even the restoration of the Last Drop, Silco’s pet project, had become part of her routine. Nyra couldn’t quite figure out his motives for refurbishing the old dive bar and moving his main operations there, but she had her suspicions. He knew Grudge—she was sure of that. And Vander too, though Silco rarely spoke about it. She’d picked up fragments here and there, more from what he didn’t say than what he did.

Nyra pulled out a sleek pair of wide pants and a tank top, tossing them onto the bed. Dandelion flopped onto the mattress, propping her chin on her hands.

“Your closet is wasted on you,” Dandelion teased. “You should let me live here, too. Equal rights and all that.”

Nyra snorted, throwing a blouse at her face. “You’re impossible. Put this on.”

Dandelion caught it and grinned. “Borrowing from your closet? You really are spoiling me.”

As they got dressed, Nyra’s thoughts wandered. She hadn’t yet been able to channel electricity on her own, something that frustrated her more than she liked to admit. Silco and the doctor—Singed, as she learned his people called him—had given her back her life, saved her from a spiral of hopelessness. She owed them.

The clean air slowly spreading through the Undercity was just one piece of Silco’s work that she couldn’t ignore. Whatever his flaws, he was changing things for the better. And despite her skepticism about his intentions, Nyra couldn’t deny that she felt a grudging gratitude for the safety and comfort she now shared with Powder.

Speak of the Devil, Powder peeked in, holding a half-assembled gadget. “Are you two almost ready? You look pretty, Nyra.”

Nyra smiled at her, tilting her head playfully. “Thanks, Blue. You sure you don’t want to come with us?”

Powder shook her head with a laugh. “Nah, you two go have fun. I’ve got stuff to work on.”

Nyra sighed, smoothing the top of Powder’s hair fondly. “Alright. Don’t stay up too late tinkering, okay?”

“Okay, mom,” Powder teased, sticking her tongue out.

Dandelion stretched dramatically. “Let’s hit the town, Ny. You still owe me that drink and I’m starving. We’ve got a night of bad decisions to make.”

Nyra rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up as they headed out, leaving Powder humming happily at her workbench.

---

Nyra descended the stairs with Dandelion by her side, adjusting the sleeves of Grudge's jacket. She insisted on wearing it, ever since his disappearance. Silco had told her that Grudge had left when she died. Just disappeared into thin air. Nyra wanted to carry a piece of him whenever she went. He was her dad, after all.

As they reached the bottom, she caught Silco’s eye. He was in conversation with Sevika, his voice low and measured as they discussed something serious.

“...issues with the rebels,” Sevika was saying, her tone clipped. She had her back to the girls, her stance tense, left arm hidden beneath her poncho. Nyra knew that there was.. something wrong with it. She just didn't know what.

Nyra’s brow furrowed as her eyes roamed Sevika's poncho. Rebels? She wanted to ask, but before she could eavesdrop further, Dandelion grabbed her wrist and tugged her toward the door.

“Don’t stare too hard, Ny. You might set her on fire,” Dandelion teased, her tone dripping with mischief.

Nyra snapped out of it, her face warming as she let herself be pulled outside. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the worst? You’re the one practically drooling,” Dandelion shot back, grinning as they walked down the narrow alleys of the Undercity. The hum of machinery and chatter of the nightlife filled the air as they made their way toward the Gardens.

The Gardens was a sultry brothel turned nightlife hotspot. It buzzed with energy—a mix of bar, music lounge, and whispers of illicit dealings. Sexual favors were offered in exchange for cash and secrets. Its neon sign flickered against the haze of cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes. It had become their go-to spot when it came to people-watching and secret-looting.

“I’m just saying,” Dandelion continued, her voice taking on a sing-song tone, “if you’re going to have a crush on a muscle-bound brute, at least make it someone who looks at you once in a while.”

Nyra groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Can we talk about literally anything else?”

Before Dandelion could retort, the world seemed to split apart.

A sharp explosion rocked the air, its roar reverberating through the narrow streets. Nyra stumbled, catching herself on a wall. Smoke plumed in the distance, and the sharp smell of burning chemicals hit her nose.

Nyra froze. Her mind fractured like a pane of glass, shards of memory slicing through her. The flash, the heat, the deafening boom of that explosion—the one that had killed her—overwhelmed her senses. She could almost feel the searing pain in her chest again, hear the screams and the crumbling of stone around her.

“Nyra!”

Dandelion’s voice pulled her back. Blinking hard, Nyra realized her friend was already sprinting toward the explosion.

“Dandy, wait!” Nyra shouted, her voice cracking slightly from exertion. Her throat ached faintly—a reminder of how fragile it still was. She forced herself into motion, her feet pounding against the cracked pavement.

They arrived at the scene of chaos: one of Silco’s newly built factories, engulfed in smoke and flame. Workers and guards scrambled in every direction, trying to douse the flames or escape the danger. The acrid stench of shimmer and burnt metal filled the air.

Figures darted through the thick haze, quick and deliberate like shadows brought to life. Nyra narrowed her eyes, watching as they moved with precision, hovering around Silco’s men. The attackers—rebels, she assumed—were armed and swift, their movements chaotic.

No, not chaotic, she realized. Calculated, planned. This was a planned attack.

Dandelion crouched behind a stack of crates, motioning for Nyra to follow. “This doesn’t look good,” she muttered.

Nyra nodded, her gaze fixed on the scene. She watched as one of the rebels—a wiry man with a bandana covering his face—leapt off a catwalk, landing gracefully before striking down one of Silco’s guards.

Nyra decided that she had to do anything to help out the workers, so she sprinted into the chaos. The acrid smoke stung her eyes, but she focused on the blur of movement ahead. She weaved through the rubble, dodging flying debris as she put every skill Crusher had drilled into her to use. Her fists were quick, her feet quicker, as she helped the workers fend off the attackers.

The rebels zipped through the air on hoverboards, their sleek silhouettes cutting through the factory’s dense haze, dodging attacks left and right, undeterred. Nyra noticed something strange—their strikes weren’t aimed at the workers but at the shimmer supplies themselves. Barrels exploded, sending plumes of violet fumes skyward, while crates toppled, spilling glimmering, toxic liquid across the floor.

Her chest heaved as she sprinted toward one of the hoverboard riders. With a quick burst of speed, she leapt forward, her foot connecting with the side of his board. He tumbled off, hitting the ground with a groan. Nyra bent over, hands on her knees, panting hard. The heat of the burning factory wrapped around her, an echo of memories she wished she could forget.

Her head throbbed, and suddenly she wasn’t in the factory anymore. She was back in the explosion that had taken her life. The taste of coppery blood filled her mouth, and the weight of collapsing rubble pressed against her limbs. Her lungs burned, clawing for oxygen as darkness closed in—

“Ekko!”

The shout sliced through her haze, yanking her back to the present. Her head whipped toward the sound, her eyes darting frantically through the smoke. There—on the ground—a boy with striking white hair, a bandana over his mouth, struggling to crawl away from a massive section of ceiling that was seconds away from crushing him. He was one of the attackers. Her heart skipped a beat - it couldn't be him, could it?

Time seemed to slow, her focus zeroing in on the boy and the jagged mass of metal and stone teetering above him. Panic swelled in her chest, threatening to choke her.

Not again. Not this time. 

A surge of electricity crackled from the core of her reactor, spiraling out through her chest and down her legs. Her muscles screamed as energy exploded through her body, propelling her forward with inhuman speed. She felt the current ripple along her skin, a wild storm of power that made her hair stand on end.

Nyra moved faster than she ever thought possible, her surroundings a blur of motion. She reached the boy just as the ceiling gave way, wrapping her arms around him and yanking him free.

The two of them tumbled out of the factory, landing in a heap just as the entrance caved in behind them. The crumbling structure roared its demise, the sound deafening in the smog-filled night.

Nyra lay on the ground, electricity still skittering along her skin, making her limbs tremble. Her breaths came in shallow gasps as she turned to the boy beside her. His bandana had slipped, revealing a face she knew so well lined with exhaustion. His eyes fluttered open, just barely, and he stared at her—first at her face, then at the golden scar running along her neck.

“You…” Ekko managed weakly before his eyes rolled back, and he went limp.

Nyra exhaled sharply, sitting up slowly so she could look at the boy lying next to her. Her heart raced in her chest as she gazed down at Ekko. The shock of the moment still hadn’t fully settled in—her body trembled, the last threads of electricity flickering along her skin like the dying embers of a fire.

For a second, time seemed to stop entirely.

Ekko. The boy she thought had been lost after the explosion. The boy she had mourned, along with the others, when Powder hadn’t mentioned his name, when she had never spoken of him again.

Ekko.

Her breath hitched in her throat as the memories flooded back, vivid and painful. Powder had been so young, so fragile, and in the aftermath of the explosion—after everything had gone dark and silent—she had never once mentioned Ekko’s survival. It was as if he had never existed at all, erased from the story in the wake of their shared tragedy.

Nyra’s chest tightened with a mix of disbelief and relief. But he’s alive. He’s here.

She quickly reached down, her hands still shaking, to check if he was breathing. He was. The shallow rise and fall of his chest assured her he wasn’t gone. His face, still a little bruised from the rubble, looked peaceful in his unconscious state, but still exhausted - what would a thirteen-year-old boy have to worry about so much?

A sense of warmth and bitterness mingled within her. How had this boy—her little brother—survived when so many others hadn’t? Why hadn’t Powder mentioned him? Had she kept him hidden? Had she been protecting him from something, from the truth?

Nyra’s mind raced, and she gently lifted Ekko’s head into her lap, her fingers running through his white hair, which had grown over the time they hadn't seen each other. His skin was warm, and for a brief moment, she let herself breathe.

A laugh, almost bitter, slipped from her lips. "You know," she muttered to him softly, though he couldn’t hear her, "I really thought you were gone too."

The sounds of battle still echoed behind her, the smoke and fire from the factory mixing with the distant hum of hoverboards zooming through the air. But it felt distant now, as though the world had slowed to a crawl, and she was the only one who existed in this moment.

She swallowed hard, trying to push the flood of emotions down—guilt, confusion, relief, anger—and focus. The boy who had been a part of her life, who she had fought beside in the wreckage, who had vanished without a trace, was here, alive in front of her.

Then, the smoke grenade clattered near her feet, and the world came roaring back.

The smoke billowed, acrid and suffocating, forcing a harsh cough from her lungs. She staggered, disoriented, waving her hands in a futile attempt to clear the air. By the time the haze dissipated, Ekko was gone. They had taken him. Of course, they had taken him. He was one of them.

Nyra’s body gave out, and she sank forward onto the cold, debris-littered ground. She stared at the spot where Ekko had been, her mind a whirlwind of disbelief and longing. Her little Ekko. Alive. After everything, he was alive. She didn’t notice the tears streaming down her face until she felt the coolness against her cheeks.

Dandelion’s voice broke through the fog, frantic and worried. "Ny? Nyra! Are you okay? Say something!" Her hands were on Nyra’s shoulders, shaking her gently, but it felt like an echo, like a voice through water.

"I...he..." Nyra’s voice was thin, broken, a ghost of itself. "He’s alive, Dandy. Ekko’s alive."

Dandelion knelt down beside her, her panic softening into concern. "Come on, Ny. We need to get out of here. You’re shaking," she said, pulling Nyra to her feet with a surprising strength that cut through Nyra’s haze. Nyra let herself be led, her legs moving sluggishly, like they weren’t entirely her own.

---

By the time they reached the house, Nyra’s skin was deathly pale, her lips faintly blue. She shivered uncontrollably, her body trembling as though all the warmth had been drained from her veins. Dandelion half-dragged, half-carried her inside, calling out for help.

Silco appeared in an instant, his usual calm demeanor cracked with urgency when he saw Nyra’s state. He crossed the room swiftly, crouching in front of her as Dandelion eased her down onto the couch.

"Nyra." His voice was firm but edged with worry. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

Nyra blinked at him, her vision blurry and unfocused. The effort of speaking felt monumental, and when the words came, they were faint, whispered. "I...I feel cold."

Silco’s sharp eyes darted over her, assessing her condition with precision. Without missing a beat, he turned to one of his men—a towering brute with tattoos etched across his face and a shaved head. Lock. "Take her to the doctor. Now."

The man moved quickly, scooping Nyra up as though she weighed nothing. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her teeth chattering as a deep chill took hold of her.

Lock felt as if he was getting Deja Vu.

"Stay with her," Silco barked, following closely behind as they rushed out the door. Nyra’s gaze wandered weakly to the entrance of the house, where she saw Powder standing frozen, her small frame silhouetted against the dim light of the house.

Powder’s face was pale with fear, her eyes wide and glassy. "Nyra?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

Dandelion stepped beside her, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. "She’s going to be okay," she murmured, though her own voice was tinged with uncertainty.

Nyra watched Powder’s face blur and fade as the cold seemed to overtake her entirely. Her consciousness flickered like a weak flame as she was carried into the depths of the night, her mind clinging to a single, undeniable truth: Ekko is alive.

---

The underwater laboratory was dimly lit, the familiar hum of machinery and the soft bubbling of chemical experiments filling the space. Singed was hunched over his latest subject, a small dead lizard, his thin fingers manipulating tools with eerie precision. When the doors slammed open, he didn’t even flinch, his disfigured face remaining blank as Silco and Lock stormed in with Nyra in tow.

Silco’s voice was sharp. “Lay her down.”

Lock moved quickly, lowering Nyra onto the cold metal of the operating table. She shivered, her breathing shallow, her skin pallid. Singed finally turned his gaze toward them, his expression unreadable. “Her weekly examination isn’t due until tomorrow,” he said flatly.

“She’s unwell. Fix her. Now,” Silco ordered, his tone brooking no argument.

Singed rose with a slow, deliberate motion, pulling on his gloves. His movements lacked urgency, as though he were already calculating every step he would take. “Step back,” he instructed Silco, who complied with a scowl but didn’t move far.

Singed leaned over Nyra, tilting her head to one side and then the other with clinical detachment. “What are you feeling?” he asked, his voice as cold as his demeanor.

Nyra struggled to find words. Her lips barely moved as she whispered, “Cold.”

Singed straightened and gestured for her to raise her shirt. With trembling fingers, Nyra revealed the electrovascular reactor embedded in her chest. Singed examined it closely, his gloved hands brushing the edges of the mechanism. The faint glow it usually emitted was dim, flickering like a dying ember.

“The reactor has expended too much charge,” Singed stated flatly, turning his gaze toward Silco. “She must have triggered something—channeled electricity, perhaps.”

Silco’s voice grew impatient. “Then fix it. Whatever it takes.”

Singed gave a curt nod, retrieving a device from a nearby table. It was the same apparatus he had used to test the reactor months ago, but this time he adjusted it to its maximum setting. “Hold her steady,” he instructed, though Nyra remained too weak to resist.

The device emitted a high-pitched whine as it powered up, and Singed pressed it directly against the reactor. The instant it made contact, Nyra screamed, her body arching off the table as electricity coursed through her. The room seemed to echo with her pain, her cries subsiding only when the device powered down.

Nyra collapsed back onto the table, panting heavily, beads of sweat forming on her brow. Silco immediately stepped closer, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice softer, though his eyes burned with concern.

Nyra nodded faintly, still catching her breath. Silco turned his attention to Singed, his frustration palpable. “Why didn’t it recharge on its own? You said it was self-sustaining.”

Singed removed his gloves with an almost nonchalant air, folding them neatly before answering. “It is. However, if she channels too much electricity, the reactor’s charge depletes beyond the threshold necessary to maintain autonomous functionality. It prioritizes survival at the cost of its own regeneration.”

Nyra pushed herself upright, rubbing her forehead as though trying to piece everything together. “So…every time I channel electricity, this will happen?” she asked weakly.

Singed’s eyes gleamed with morbid curiosity. “You did channel it yourself, then,” he said, leaning closer as if fascinated by her response.

Nyra nodded slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t…on purpose. It was life or death. The reactor just…reacted. I needed to move faster.”

Singed stepped back, his gaze flicking between her and the reactor. “With the Apex Shimmer running through your veins, it enhances the output exponentially. Inhuman speed. But,” he added with a curious smile, “at what a steep cost…”

Silco’s patience finally snapped, and he silenced Singed with a glare. He turned back to Nyra and helped her down from the table, his hand firm but gentle as he steadied her.

“Let’s go,” Silco said, his voice low.

Nyra leaned into his support, her legs still shaky as they exited the lab. The air outside was cold, but it felt warmer than the icy dread that lingered in her chest. Silco didn’t say a word during the walk home, but when she looked at him, she felt as if she could hear a million thoughts running through his head.

---

Silco's retreat from the room left an air of quiet authority behind him. Nyra watched as he closed the door, her gaze lingering on the space he had occupied. His insistence on stocking the room with what felt like enough food and tea to survive a nuclear winter wasn’t surprising, but she couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his incessant pampering. She sank onto her bed with a weary sigh, rubbing her forehead as the events of the night replayed in her mind.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps. The door burst open, and Powder dashed inside, her wide eyes scanning Nyra from head to toe.

“Nyra! What happened? Are you okay?” Powder’s voice was high-pitched, teetering on panic as she rushed to her side.

Nyra mustered a weak smile, sitting up slightly and patting the bed beside her. “I’m okay, bug,” she said, her voice soft. “I was just…shocked, is all. Nothing to worry about.”

Powder didn’t look convinced, but she threw her arms around Nyra anyway, clinging tightly. The warmth of her embrace made Nyra’s chest ache, but she said nothing, simply letting the silence stretch between them.

It was Nyra who broke it, her voice hesitant. “Blue… what happened with Ekko?”

The shift in Powder’s demeanor was instant. She stiffened in Nyra’s arms and slowly pulled back, her gaze dropping to her hands. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, and Nyra frowned, reaching out to gently cup Powder’s cheeks, tilting her head up so their eyes met.

“Baby Blue,” Nyra said softly but firmly. “We promised, remember? No lies. We share everything.”

Powder hesitated, her lower lip trembling before she finally spoke. “He works against us now,” she mumbled, her voice barely audible.

Nyra’s brow furrowed. “Against us? Against Silco? Why?”

Powder shrugged helplessly, her hands curling into fists in her lap. “He doesn’t like Silco,” she admitted. “He says that he doesn't like the fact that Silco calls me Jinx, that he took over after V—Vander, and that he gives shimmer to people. He thinks Silco’s ruining the Undercity instead of helping it.”

Nyra frowned deeper, confusion flickering in her eyes. “But… Silco’s done so much for the Lanes. He’s feeding people, giving them strength, hope. Why would Ekko work against that?”

“I don’t know!” Powder’s voice wavered, and she looked close to tears. “He just doesn’t get it. Silco clothed us, fed us, gave us a home. He’s restoring the Last Drop for us, for everyone! Ekko just—he doesn’t understand. Please, please, please don't let him sway you!”

Nyra’s hand moved to Powder’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry, bug,” she said gently. “You’re right. He’s given us so much, and I won’t forget that.” She kissed Powder’s forehead, her lips lingering for a moment as she tried to push aside the swirl of conflicting emotions Ekko’s reappearance had stirred.

Powder peered up at her. “Why are you asking, Nyra? Did you…did you see him?”

Nyra hesitated but eventually nodded. “I think I saw him. I can’t be sure, but…I thought it was him.”

Powder’s grip tightened on Nyra’s arm. “Don’t believe him, Nyra. He lies about Silco—he’s wrong about him. Don’t let him get to you.”

Nyra forced a small smile, stroking Powder’s hair. “I won’t, bug. Don’t worry.”

Powder finally relaxed, her small body leaning heavily against Nyra’s as they settled back onto the bed. Nyra pulled her close, wrapping her arms around her in a protective embrace. They lay there in silence, Nyra’s thoughts racing despite the exhaustion tugging at her.

Eventually, their breaths evened out, and they both drifted into sleep.

---

The air on the balcony was cool and crisp, entirely different to the oppressive weight of the nightmare that had jolted Nyra awake. She leaned heavily against the railing, her fingers gripping the cold metal as she tried to calm her racing heart. The images from her dream still lingered: the searing heat of the explosion, the deafening roar of collapsing walls, and the whispered accusations of her dead friends. She wasn't quick enough. She could've saved them. It was all her fault for letting them go on that job.

She shuddered, rubbing her arms to ward off the chill that had little to do with the night air.

The stillness was interrupted by a voice from above, light and laced with humor. “The last time I saw you in a place this fancy, we were scoping out Piltover’s middle-class mansions. Guess you’ve moved up in the world.”

Nyra spun around, her eyes scanning the shadows, her body tensed to fight. Her gaze darted upward, and her breath caught in her throat. Perched on the roof was a figure she recognized instantly—short and wiry, his white hair catching the moonlight. Ekko. He looked almost exactly as she remembered him: full of sharp edges and defiant energy, although he was now thirteen years old instead of ten.

“Ekko…” she breathed, her voice filled with disbelief. She scrambled onto the roof with an agility born of months of training, closing the gap between them in seconds. She threw her arms around him, holding him so tightly she was sure he’d complain. “You snarky little shit! Don’t you dare vanish again. Tell me everything—what’s happened since…”

She trailed off, her voice hitching with emotion. Ekko pulled back, his eyes wide as he took her in. “How…how are you talking?” he asked, pointing to her neck. His gaze lingered on the faint golden scar.

Nyra reached up, her fingers brushing the mark softly. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It just happened. Now quit stalling. Why are you working against Silco? Against Blue? Why did you abandon her?”

His expression darkened instantly and he moved farther back. “Abandon her? I didn’t abandon her!” he snapped. “She’s the one who stayed with that bloodthirsty tyrant! Silco’s poisoning the undercity with shimmer—turning people into addicts, slaves. He’s not saving it; he’s killing it!”

Nyra bristled, her hand instinctively moving to the reactor embedded in her chest. She tapped it through the thin fabric of her nightgown, the faint glow pulsing beneath her touch. “Shimmer saved me,” she said fiercely. “It’s the reason I’m alive, Ekko. It’s not some poison; it’s giving people strength, healing.”

Ekko stared at the faint glow of the reactor, dumbfounded. “And you’re not addicted? How is that possible if you’ve got shimmer in your system?”

“There’s no such thing as shimmer addiction,” Nyra retorted. “If people misuse it, that’s their fault. Silco’s using it to give the undercity a chance to fight back, to survive.”

Ekko dragged his hands through his hair, frustration radiating from him. “You sound just like her. Just like Jinx. You’ve both been brainwashed.”

“We’re not brainwashed!” Nyra snapped. “And don't call her that. We’re safe, Ekko. Loved, taken care of. Blue and I…we’re okay.”

Ekko pointed a finger at her, his jaw working as though he wanted to argue further, but he let out a heavy sigh instead. He turned away, sitting on the roof with his knees pulled to his chest. “Where did it all go wrong, Nyra?” he murmured. “Why did it have to be like this?”

Nyra lowered herself beside him reluctantly, her voice softer now. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe fate decided to be cruel for once. To take rather than give. But I wouldn’t change a single thing about meeting you. Or Blue. Or anyone I love.”

He was silent for a moment, then glanced down at his hands. Nyra rolled her eyes, leaning sideways to bump his shoulder. “All right, enough of the brooding. Who did your hair? It’s cool as hell.”

He chuckled reluctantly, a faint smile breaking through his somber expression. “Met this pretty cool Vastaya guy. He’s got a knack for it.”

Nyra grinned, resting her chin on her hand as she listened to him talk. He shared stories of his travels, his fights, and the makeshift family he’d built for himself. The words poured out of him, his passion and pain interwoven in every tale.

---

As they sat side by side on the roof, Nyra’s gaze shifted to the hoverboard lying beside Ekko. She reached out and picked it up, running her fingers over the smooth surface and intricate mechanisms. “This is... impressive,” she said, a low whistle escaping her lips. “Did you invent this?”

Ekko rubbed the back of his neck, his expression somewhere between pride and embarrassment. “Yeah. Well…with some help,” he admitted.

Nyra’s eyebrows rose. “Help? From who?” She tilted her head, curiosity evident in her voice.

Ekko hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his bandana. “Just…someone who’s good with this kind of stuff,” he said finally, avoiding her gaze.

Nyra studied him for a moment, noting the reluctance in his tone. She sighed inwardly and decided not to push. He didn’t trust her—not yet, anyway. I’ll earn it back, she thought. One step at a time.

Turning her attention back to the hoverboard, she inspected it more closely. She touched the turbine, her fingertips brushing against the finely crafted edges. “You know,” she began, her voice taking on a playful, conspiratorial tone, “this is good, but I see a few places you could tweak it.”

Ekko blinked, leaning forward slightly. “Oh, really?”

She grinned and tapped the turbine. “Here, for starters. You could reinforce the casing to reduce wear and tear when you’re doing those crazy tricks, and maybe adjust the air intake here for better speed control. You know the air is denser in the fissures. I could help, if you want.”

Ekko’s eyes widened slightly as he watched her trace the components with an experienced touch. “You haven't forgotten your stuff, huh?” he muttered, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Nyra shrugged, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she handed the board back to him. “I’ve had the chance to hone my craft. Silco’s been…generous with his resources.” Her voice dipped briefly, her tone softening. “Let me know if you ever want me to take a look at it.”

Ekko took the hoverboard, his fingers brushing against hers briefly. He studied her for a moment, as if weighing her sincerity, then nodded. “Maybe... Man, it's so weird hearing you speak,” he said, his voice noncommittal but less guarded than before.

She smiled faintly and leaned back on her hands, watching as he ran his fingers over the hoverboard. 

Eventually, he stood, his silhouette framed against the starlit sky. “I’ve gotta go,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “But…I’ll be back. Probably.”

Nyra stood with him, pulling him into another fierce hug. “Be safe, you little troublemaker,” she whispered. “And trust me—Blue and I will be safe too.”

Ekko nodded reluctantly, stepping onto his hoverboard. He cast her one last look, worry etched into his features, before disappearing into the night. Nyra stayed on the roof long after he was gone, staring at the horizon and clutching her arms around herself as if to hold the moment together.

---

The next day dawned with the thick haze of the Undercity hanging heavy in the air. Nyra trudged alongside Silco, her hands stuffed in the pockets of Grudge's jacket as they made their way to the training grounds. The usual chatter that accompanied her walks with Powder or Dandelion was absent, replaced by a stifling silence that pressed on her chest. She glanced at Silco once, twice, waiting for him to speak, but he seemed content with the quiet.

Her boots scuffed against the uneven ground, her irritation simmering. Why is he even coming with me? He’s going to hover like a shadow the entire time. She sighed loudly, trying to make her feelings known, but Silco didn’t so much as flinch.

When they finally turned a corner, Silco’s voice cut through the silence, calm yet deliberate. “Nyra.”

She looked up, startled, and found him already looking at her, his mismatched eyes gleaming with something she couldn’t quite place. His lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.

“It occurs to me,” he said smoothly, “that now, as one of my own, it’s only fitting for you to have a monicker.”

Nyra blinked, caught off guard. “A monicker?” Her voice cracked slightly, and she winced, rubbing her throat. She hadn’t expected this topic.

“Yes,” Silco said, his tone unwavering, “a name befitting someone with your... potential. Something that embodies who you are.” He paused, the smile deepening as he tilted his head.

“What do you think about the name... Spark?”

Chapter Text

The Last Drop pulsed with life, a familiar symphony of raucous laughter, metal riffs, and bawdy ballads echoing off the walls. The once warm lights inside had been replaced with their neon counterparts, the bar decked out for hardcore party-goers.

Perched high on a beam like some mischievous gargoyle, Nyra tinkered with a small gadget, a prototype for an incapacitating bomb, courtesy of Ekko, her fingers nimble as they twisted wires into place. Below her, patrons jostled for drinks and hollered requests at the band, all blissfully unaware of her overhead vigil. She sighed, the grin tugging at her lips widening as she swung her legs before letting go. The braid she had gotten into the habit of pulling her hair into every morning whipped behind her, lashing against the air.

She landed lightly on a barstool, the dull thud of her boots drowned out by the music. With a swift move, she plopped herself on her ass, smiling mischievously.

“Thieram,” she called, watching as the bartender nearly dropped a glass in surprise.

“Blazes, Spark,” he huffed, clutching his chest. “Thought you were Jinx for a second.”

Nyra’s eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a serious line. “Watch your mouth,” she said in a low voice. Thieram froze, his knuckles white around the glass.

Then, just as he started to sweat, Nyra broke into a grin. “And make me a cocktail. Actually, make two—one with a kick, one without.”

Thieram groaned under his breath but set to work. As he poured the bright blue liquids into glasses, he muttered, “Always so sneaky... acting like you own the place.”

“Close enough!” Nyra sang back, grabbing the cocktails as he slid them across the counter. “And put it on Silco’s tab, will ya?”

“Silco owns the tab!” Thieram called after her, but she was already gone, weaving through the crowd with the drinks in hand, humming a jaunty tune.

---

The streets of the Undercity buzzed with their usual cacophony of activity, the neon glow giving everything its familiar electric sheen. Nyra twirled as she walked, her braid whipping behind her as she swayed to the melody in her head. She threw beaming smiles at passing faces, not noticing the wary glances and the stiff nods of those too nervous to do anything else.

Reaching the outskirts, she crouched and leaped gracefully down to the sprawling rotor blades of Powder’s workshop— an abandoned contraption that was once used to create electricity, gifted to both her and Powder for their joint birthday two years ago. The giant turbine stood unmoving in the humid air, the enormous metal blades slicing through the dim haze.

Nyra landed with practiced ease, the sharp clang of metal reverberating beneath her boots. Powder didn’t look up from her workstation, her hands deep in her latest project.

“Boo,” Nyra teased, placing the non-alcoholic drink beside Powder and pressing a kiss to her hair. “What’s my favorite little rascal working on now?”

Powder pushed her goggles to her forehead, glancing at the drink and then at Nyra. “A new toy for Silco’s crew,” she mumbled, her focus already shifting back to the gadget.

Nyra dropped onto the worn couch nearby, her drink in hand. She stretched out, tapping her boot idly against the dummy seated beside her—a crudely constructed likeness of Mylo.

“Need a hand?” Nyra offered after a moment, her tone light.

Powder exhaled sharply through her nose, not looking up. “Not this time,” she said, fiddling with a bolt. “But Silco asked me to tell you something. Said you’re needed at a briefing in The Last Drop.”

Nyra groaned, her head rolling back dramatically. “Ugh, boring!” she declared, then drained her glass in one go and staggered upright like a playacting drunk. Stumbling over to Powder, she draped herself over her like an overenthusiastic cloak, their cheeks smushed together.

“Can’t I just hang out here with you?” Nyra whined, batting her lashes in mock innocence.

Powder’s lips quirked faintly, but her hands stayed busy. “You could, but I’d just kick you out eventually.”

Nyra pouted and slumped off of her, retreating to the couch. Her boots resumed their rhythmic tapping against the Mylo dummy. Tap, tap, tap.

“Shut up, Mylo! She DOES want to spend time with me!” Powder suddenly snapped, flinging a loose screw at the dummy. It pinged off harmlessly but left a ringing silence in its wake.

Nyra blinked at the dummy, then at Powder, tilting her head. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly, her teasing tone vanishing.

Powder slumped forward, her arms crossing on the workbench as she muttered, “He’s louder lately. Mylo. In my head. Won’t shut up, keeps saying... saying stuff.”

Nyra slowly unfolded herself, rising from the couch. She walked tentatively towards the workbench and crouched beside Powder, gently cupping her cheek and making her meet her gaze. “Hey,” she said, her voice steady and warm. “Don’t listen to him. He’s not... here, Blue. But you are. And you’re brilliant.”

Powder searched Nyra’s face for a moment before exhaling heavily. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Nyra hesitated, then ventured cautiously, “What if we go see Little Man? It’s been a while—”

Powder’s expression soured instantly. “Ekko doesn’t want to see me,” she snapped, crossing her arms tightly. “He doesn’t want to accept the fact that I'm Jinx now. And he still works against Silco.”

Nyra’s brows furrowed, her lips parting to respond, but Powder beat her to it. “And don’t say I’m not a Jinx, Nyra. You don’t know.” Her voice cracked faintly, and she yanked her goggles back down, burying herself in her work again.

Nyra’s hand hovered over Powder’s shoulder for a moment before she let it fall. She had learned the hard way that she shouldn't pressure her. And yet, she still tried.

"Bug-" 

Powder threw a blistering glare at Nyra, silencing her.

After a few seconds, Nyra sighed and looked away. She rubbed her chin and looked up at Powder, giving her a little sad smile.

“I guess I’ll go to that stupid briefing,” she said softly. She straightened up and ruffled one of the two short braids Powder had woven into her hair earlier, then kissed the top of her head. “Stay safe, yeah?”

Powder grunted in response, already lost in her tinkering. As Nyra climbed the turbine and disappeared into the hazy light above, Powder muttered under her breath, “Wish you’d listen to your own advice.”

---

Nyra sauntered into the Last Drop with a bounce in her step, her boots clicking against the scuffed floorboards. She shot Thieram a lazy salute as she made her way up the stairs. The bartender fumbled with the glass in his hands, nearly losing his grip. He muttered something under his breath about "troublemakers" but Nyra didn’t catch it—or care to.

Reaching the top, she didn’t bother to knock, strutting into Silco’s office with all the subtlety of a firecracker. The familiar haze of cigar smoke and the warm hum of amber lights greeted her as she plopped herself onto the worn leather couch, legs swinging over the armrest.

“Heya, boss,” she said, beaming.

Behind the desk, Silco didn’t even look up from his reports at first. His pen glided across the paper in precise strokes as he let out a short puff of air. “As punctual as ever,” he said, his voice dry as kindling.

Nyra grinned, leaning back like she owned the place. “Of course. It’s called consistency.”

To her right, Sevika stood leaning against the wall, her arms crossed. The dim light glinted off her mechanical arm, a marvel of engineering that never failed to catch Nyra’s eye. During the three years Nyra had spent under Silco’s wing, she’d watched Sevika mow through countless rebels and subordinates alike, only resorting to that arm when someone strong—or stupid—enough came along to make her break a sweat. Sevika had never known defeat.

Sevika’s gaze flicked to Nyra for a moment, cool and indifferent, before returning to the conversation at hand. Her presence was like a coiled spring, deceptively relaxed but ready to snap into action at a moment’s notice.

The door burst open suddenly, and a gangly young man with greasy blonde hair stumbled inside, panting heavily as if he’d sprinted the entire way. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” he gasped, bowing awkwardly.

Silco still didn’t look up. “Tardiness is a waste of time,” he said coolly, the pen in his hand not pausing for a second.

“I—I know, I’m really sorry—”

A single look from Silco silenced him. The young man’s words trailed off like a candle snuffed out by a gust of wind.

Now that the room was silent again, Silco set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. His mismatched eyes glimmered with sharp focus as he finally addressed the group. “Now that we’re all here,” he began, his voice smooth but weighted with authority, “I’d like to discuss the Firelights and their recent disruptions to shimmer production.”

Nyra tensed, her hands curling into fists on her lap. She felt a dull ache rise in her chest—a knot of guilt and fear she hadn’t been able to untangle in years. She forced herself to keep a neutral face, though her mind raced with memories.

Ekko.

The boy she called her little brother. Her chosen family. Over the past three years, his Firelights had grown from a whisper of resistance to a thorn in Silco’s side. From destroying shimmer shipments to stalling the production of the drug, they had a part in making sales plunge after every raid.

The Firelights’ name wasn’t just a rallying cry—it was a tribute to a fallen comrade, someone whose death had scarred Ekko deeply.

She could still picture him that night, standing on the rooftop with tears brimming in his eyes. In that moment, he looked just like the little boy she used to comfort with whispered reassurances every time another sump rat or Undercity resident fell victim to death. He seemed so fragile, so defenseless—like he might shatter at the slightest touch.

He had clenched his fists so tightly she thought his knuckles might crack, and his voice had been barely a whisper when he said, “We’ll be the Firelights. For her.”

Nyra had hugged him, holding him close as he trembled. But the visits after that night had grown fewer and farther between. Ekko had drifted away, becoming distant as Nyra herself was pulled deeper into Silco’s world. His insistent ramblings that she must open her eyes and see the truth had lost their spark as if he had given up. She hadn’t even noticed how far apart they’d grown until one day, he simply stopped showing up altogether.

Her chest tightened at the thought. She shifted in her seat, pressing her lips together to keep the memories at bay.

“Something to add, Spark?” Silco’s voice cut through her thoughts like a razor.

She blinked, startled, and realized both he and Sevika were watching her. Quickly masking her unease, she shook her head, flashing a crooked smile. “Not at all,” she said, her voice deliberately light. “I’m just listening.”

“Good,” Silco said, turning his attention back to the reports. But Nyra could feel Sevika’s eyes linger on her a second longer, sharp and assessing.

Silco leaned back in his chair, his mismatched eyes gleaming with intent. “It’s time we dealt with the Firelights properly. No more games, no more chases. A honeypot, if you will,” he began, his voice calm. “They’ve been a thorn in our side for too long, meddling in shimmer operations. Their foolishness has run its course, and we cannot afford further hindrances to production.”

Nyra tensed where she sat on the plush but slightly tattered couch. Her hands curled into fists against her thighs, the weight of his words pressing down on her. Her mind warred with itself—part of her wanted to trust Silco, as she always had, but another part whispered unease. She swallowed hard, her heart racing as Silco continued.

“I want Sevika, Darren, and Spark and Jinx’s weapons to ensure there’s no escape this time.”

Nyra’s mind spiraled, her vision swimming with flashes of what those weapons could do. Her weapons. Powder’s weapons. In her mind’s eye, she saw Ekko—grinning, carefree Ekko—falling, a grenade’s explosion blooming like fire behind him. She couldn't allow that to happen.

She blinked rapidly, trying to force the thought away. 

“I want to be there,” she blurted out suddenly, her voice louder than she intended.

Silco’s hand froze mid-gesture, and all eyes in the room turned to her. Darren's head tilted slightly, and Sevika’s unimpressed scowl deepened. Nyra straightened, sitting properly and lacing her hands together to stop them from trembling. Her gaze locked onto Silco’s, pleading.

“I won’t fail,” she said firmly. “I want to help.”

Silco studied her, his expression unreadable. The silence dragged on, stretching her nerves taut. Then he sighed, rubbing his temple.

“You’re indispensable, Spark,” he said finally. “I cannot have you getting hurt.”

“I won’t,” she interjected quickly. “I can always run if it gets bad. My electricity—I’ve gotten better at using it in moderation.” She paused, her voice softening. “I won’t need Singed’s help recharging.”

His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her, but he knew he would cave eventually. After a moment, he sighed again and gave her a small nod.

“Fine,” he said, turning his attention back to his papers. “But know this—if you fail, Sevika will be the one responsible for you.”

Sevika bristled visibly, her jaw tightening as though she were about to protest, but Silco waved them off, signaling the conversation was over.

Nyra rose quickly, throwing Sevika an awkward, nervous smile. The woman responded with a vicious stare, her heavy boots thudding against the floor as she stomped out. Darren scurried after her like a nervous rodent.

Alone with Silco for a moment longer, Nyra hesitated, then leaned in to hug him briefly. He shook his head, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he returned to his work.

As Nyra slipped out of the room and into the dim corridors of the Last Drop, her mind churned. She had to find a way to warn Ekko. The trap Silco was planning was airtight, and if she couldn’t contact Ekko in time, she would have to think of something—anything—to make sure the Firelights escaped unscathed.

Her stomach knotted at the thought of anyone getting hurt. This wasn’t who she was, she told herself, biting her lip. She wasn’t a monster. She wasn’t—she couldn’t be. Or had she already turned into one and been blind to it? 

No. Of course not. She was doing it for the cause.

She pushed the thought aside as she hurried down the corridor, her heart pounding in her chest.

---

Ekko leaned over the table, his hands spread wide across the schematics sprawled before him. His index finger traced a thick line on the page, stopping at a marked entrance. “Here,” he said, voice calm but commanding, “is where we split up. Three teams. Two go in loud—smoke bombs, decoys, the works. The last one sneaks through this side door. Silent, quick. We want that cargo gone before they even realize what’s happening.”

The room was dimly lit, the murmurs of the gathered Firelights barely audible over the hum of tension. A faint glow from the overhead lightbulb reflected in their eyes, but their attention stayed locked on Ekko. His voice rose just enough to cut through the tension. “This isn’t your average raid. It’s the biggest one we’ve pulled, and something smells off. Could be a trap.”

The murmurs grew louder. A small figure near the edge of the group—a girl, barely taller than the hoverboard she clutched—raised her hand tentatively. “If you think it’s a trap,” she piped up, her voice thin but steady, “why are we going?”

Ekko glanced at her, his expression softening for just a moment before he straightened. “Because,” he said firmly, “we don’t have the luxury of being suspicious. If I’m wrong, Silco’s shipment goes untouched, and we lose our chance. If I’m right, we’re prepared to take the hit. But let me be clear—if you’re scared, if you don’t want to risk it, don’t come. Nobody here is being forced.”

The room fell silent for a beat, the weight of his words settling over them. Then, from the shadows at the back, a voice rang out—a woman’s voice, sharp and unyielding. “The Firelights aren’t scared weaklings. We’ll follow you anywhere, Ekko.”

His faint smile flickered into existence, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks,” he replied, glancing in her direction. “But you’re staying behind.”

The shadows shifted, and the woman pushed off the wall, her footsteps deliberate as she stalked toward him. “No,” she snapped, her tone clipped and defiant. “I have to be there. I can help.”

Ekko turned to face her fully, his calm demeanor never faltering. “You are helping,” he said gently, but his words carried the weight of finality. “You’ve got another mission, one only you can handle. If you get caught here, that’s it. Game over. For you, for the mission, for us.”

Her fists clenched, her shoulders tensing. “That’s not—”

“Hummingbird,” he interrupted softly, his sad smile cutting through her anger like a whisper. “You know I’m right.”

Her jaw tightened, her glare drilling into him for a long, tense moment. Finally, with a sharp huff, she turned on her heel and leaned back against the wall, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She didn’t say another word, but the air between them was heavy with unspoken frustration.

Before Ekko could continue, a new voice broke the moment—a younger Firelight near the center of the group. His face was earnest, his brows furrowed as he hesitated before speaking. “Cap,” he began carefully, “if we’re so suspicious of Jinx… why not ask Spark whether the information is a trap?”

The room stilled. Whispers rippled across the group like wind through tall grass, and all eyes turned toward their leader. Ekko’s shoulders stiffened as the question hung in the air, heavy and unavoidable.

“She’s as close to Silco as Jinx is,” the boy pressed, emboldened by the quiet. “And you’re close to her. Shouldn’t we ask her directly?”

Ekko’s gaze dropped to the schematics, his fingers curling into fists on the table. The hesitation was fleeting but noticeable, a crack in his steady demeanor. “She can’t be trusted,” he said finally, his voice low. The boy flinched at the curt dismissal, but Ekko didn’t look up. “Spark’s not one of us. She made her choice long ago.”

The murmurs faded into an uneasy silence, the room no longer brimming with confidence. Ekko straightened, his face unreadable as he gestured to the schematics. “Alright,” he said, his tone harder now, “roles. Let’s go over this again. I want it clean, I want it precise, and I want everyone ready to adapt.”

The Firelights leaned in, their focus reluctantly shifting back to the plan. Ekko spared one last glance at the shadows, where Hummingbird stood motionless, her expression a storm of unease. He could feel the weight of their questions pressing against him, unspoken but present nonetheless.

As the planning continued, Ekko couldn’t help the faint ache in his chest. For all his conviction, he knew the truth—the cracks in Spark’s façade were growing, and someday soon, they would shatter her.

---

Nyra pushed open the heavy doors of the Last Drop with a force that made them groan, stepping out into the cold, damp air of the Undercity. The neon glow from the signs cast fragmented reflections on the rain-slick cobblestones as she stormed down the winding paths. Her boots struck the ground with purpose, her coat flaring behind her as she made her way toward Silco’s estate in the Promenade.

She barely registered the nervous glances of passersby or the faint mutterings from the shimmer addicts huddled in the alleys. The Promenade loomed ahead, its narrow streets lined with uneven buildings stacked like haphazard blocks, and at its heart, Silco’s house stood like a jagged crown. A curt nod to one of the workers—who quickly stepped aside with an awkward smile—and she was ascending the wooden staircase inside, her thoughts spinning faster than her feet.

The rooftop was her sanctuary. The only place where she could spend time with Ekko.

The moment she reached the balcony, Nyra vaulted herself onto the edge, hoisting her frame up with practiced ease. The chill air hit her face as she settled onto the damp tiles, her legs dangling over the side.

The skyline of the Undercity stretched before her—a tangle of rusted metal, dim lights, and distant plumes of smoke. She scanned the horizon desperately, searching for a glimmer of hope: the flash of Ekko’s hoverboard slicing through the night, the unmistakable silhouette of a Firelight zipping across the skyline. She needed to find them. To warn them of Silco's plan.

But there was nothing. Only the steady hum of a distant turbine and the occasional shout from the streets below.

Nyra hugged her knees to her chest, her fingers tugging at the frayed hem of her gloves.

Her mind wandered to the safe houses the Firelights used to pass messages—old, abandoned buildings carefully scouted over months to ensure they weren’t occupied by shimmer addicts or being used for Silco’s operations. Inside, they would leave encrypted messages on the walls, designed for other Firelights to find and understand. Ekko would tell her where the newest safe houses were, should she wish to send him a message.

Each safe house she’d tried had been empty—abandoned in haste, their walls littered with Silco’s warnings. The last time she saw Ekko was months ago, and he had been quick to leave - he didn't tell her where the newest safe house was located.

A bitter taste rose in her mouth as her mind raced with memories of Ekko, and the promises they’d shared. 

Had he given up on her and Powder? Had he moved on from them?

The night deepened, stars swallowed by the haze of pollution above. Nyra’s chest tightened as the hours dragged on, her hope dwindling with every passing second. Still, she remained, her heart thrumming with stubborn determination. The Firelights had to be out there. They had to. At least one - someone, anyone, so she could help them. Help Ekko.

But by the time the city's muffled chaos began to quiet and the dampness of the night seeped through her coat, reality settled like a heavy weight on her shoulders. She sighed, her breath visible in the cold air, and climbed down the balcony with languid movements. Her limbs felt leaden as she crossed the threshold of Silco’s house, the faint echoes of her boots against the tile the only sound greeting her.

Nyra slipped out the front door, her face a blank slate to the people who watched her pass. She walked briskly, her usual sway absent, her hands jammed into her coat pockets. The path to the workshop felt longer than usual, her thoughts clouding her every step.

She knew that Ekko had no desire to be around her. Nyra had seen the way his face would fall every time she mentioned Silco or the worried looks he would throw her. She knew that he was holding back, that he had so many things he wanted to say to her, but out of respect, he kept them to himself. She could see it in his eyes that he believed that the Nyra he saw as a big sister was gone.

When she reached the jagged stone walls surrounding the workshop, she scaled them, her fingers and feet finding familiar holds in the rugged surface. The sight of Powder hunched over her notebook, a smudge of grease on her cheek and her brow furrowed in concentration, brought a fleeting warmth to Nyra’s chest.

“Hey,” Nyra muttered as she dropped onto the battered couch with a soft thud. Powder didn’t look up, only raised a hand in acknowledgment while continuing to scribble feverishly.

The weariness finally caught up to her. Nyra kicked off her boots, curled into herself, and let her eyes drift shut. Powder’s quiet hum of concentration and the scratch of her pen were the last things Nyra heard before sleep claimed her.

---

The warehouse reeked of oil and the faint tang of shimmer fumes. Shadows stretched across the walls as the dim, swinging lamps cast a sickly amber glow over crates stamped with fake Undercity trade seals. The sound of heavy boots on metal grated in the background, a reminder that time was slipping away.

Nyra adjusted the hem of her loose, gray pants and flexed her fingers, feeling the familiar hum of electricity building under her skin. Her braid, neat and sharp as a whip, hung over her back. She looked every inch the rebel with a cause—if only she could decide which cause it was today.

From her position against one of the walls, Nyra peered at the bustling warehouse floor. Workers, or at least Silco's version of them, shuffled crates with exaggerated effort. They were props in the grand scheme, pawns ready to drop the act and draw their weapons at the first sign of trouble. She scanned their faces, noting the tension in their shoulders and the barely-concealed excitement in their eyes. They smelled blood—or shimmer thieves, at least.

Sevika’s bark cut through the murmurs around her. “No mistakes, got it? I see one of you wandering off, and I’ll personally make sure you don’t wander anywhere ever again.” Her tone was razor-edged, slicing through the nerves of every poor soul who thought they could take it easy tonight.

Nyra couldn't help but smirk. Sevika always did have a way with words. It wasn’t just the authority she exuded or the way her metal arm gleamed ominously under the poncho; it was her whole presence. Unshakable. Imposing. Annoyingly captivating.

Nyra caught Sevika’s glance—a dagger of a look that screamed, Don’t you dare screw this up.

Nyra rolled her eyes, putting on her most innocent face. She mouthed, Who, me?

Sevika’s expression didn’t soften. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, wordlessly reinforcing her unspoken threat.

Fine, Mom. Nyra snorted under her breath, her lips twitching into a crooked smile as Sevika turned back to her men. If Nyra wasn’t careful, her admiration for Sevika might cross into full-on swooning territory. And wouldn’t that just be embarrassing?

Climbing onto a beam, Nyra crouched low, scanning the room like a hawk. The makeshift workers shifted and milled around below, their movements stiff and deliberate. Any Firelight with half a brain would smell the trap, but Nyra had to admit—Ekko wasn’t one to ignore bait. His hatred for Silco burned too brightly to let this pass. She just hoped it didn’t get him killed.

Her plan replayed in her mind like a mantra: Her orders were to make sure that no firelights could escape from the overhead window. However, she would miraculously leave her perch on the beam, giving them a safe escape. Coupled with a few sparks here, a little chaos there, she would scare them off without hurting anyone too badly while keeping her act convincing. And if she could get close enough to Ekko? A few hurried signs to warn him—Leave now, it’s a setup.

Simple. Efficient. Problematic if Sevika noticed.

Her chest tightened with guilt. It wasn’t fair, being stuck in this no-man’s-land between loyalty and friendship. Ekko was practically family once, and Silco had given her and Powder a home when they had none. Choosing a side was impossible, so she did what she always did: walked the tightrope and hoped it didn’t snap.

Below, Sevika raised her hand, signaling the workers to take their positions. The air in the warehouse grew heavy, the kind of silence that came before an explosion—or a bad idea.

Nyra stretched her fingers, feeling the crackle of energy waiting to be unleashed. She whispered under her breath, a prayer to Janna or maybe just to herself. “Here we go. Don’t screw this up.”

The sound of whirring engines echoed in the distance. Her pulse quickened. Firelights. Of course, Ekko took the bait.

Her braid swung behind her as she shifted her weight, ready to act. Electricity danced along her fingertips like restless fireflies, itching for release.

The hum of hoverboards faded, leaving an electric silence in its wake. Everyone held their breath, the room poised on the edge of chaos. Then, with a thunderous crash, the doors and windows burst open. A swarm of Firelights on hoverboards flooded the warehouse, their green glow slicing through the dim haze like fireflies in the dark.

Nyra crouched on her beam, heart pounding as she watched them dart through the air, toppling crates and shattering fake shimmer barrels. The operation unraveled fast. Below her, one of Silco’s workers sprinted toward a lever on the far wall—the release for the shimmer beasts hidden in the walls. Nyra's breath hitched. No. They’re not ready for that.

Her gaze darted around frantically. The Firelights had started to notice—there was no shimmer in the crates, only decoys. Panic rippled through their ranks. She spotted them scattering, but they got hemmed in by Silco’s goons.  The warehouse turned into a battleground of flashing lights, clashing bodies, and desperate movements.

Nyra knew she couldn't stay hidden. With a deep breath, she leaped from the beam, releasing a crackling burst of electricity that coursed through her legs, propelling her forward like a lightning bolt. The air sizzled as her feet hit the ground. She moved fast, too fast for anyone to pin her down.

Subtle pulses of electricity shot from her fingers as she passed, jolting the goons who got too close to any Firelight. The shocks weren't enough to hurt—just to slow them down, long enough for the Firelights to slip past unnoticed.

Across the chaos, Nyra caught a glimpse of Sevika. Her poncho hit the ground as she dove into the fray, swinging her mechanical arm like a wrecking ball. She moved with an animalistic ferocity, every strike a calculated blow. Nyra didn't linger on the sight—there was no time.

Her eyes locked on a flash of white hair under an owl mask. Ekko.

Nyra’s body moved before her mind caught up. She channeled electricity through her legs, launching herself into the air. She landed on the back of Ekko’s hoverboard, the jolt of impact almost throwing her off.

He reacted instantly, swinging his bat-like weapon. She ducked, the air whistling as the blow grazed past her. Nyra flashed him a warning look, sharp and urgent, her eyes saying what her lips could not: Don’t blow this.

For a heartbeat, he hesitated. Then, he caught himself, snapping back into the moment. They clashed, a carefully orchestrated dance of dodges and strikes. Neither of them meant to hurt the other—it was all for show.

Nyra weaved around his next swing, her voice low and hurried. “The ceiling. It’s your only way out.”

Ekko’s mask tilted slightly, as if he were assessing her. “You’re supposed to be guarding it,” he muttered, his eyes wide as understanding dawned on him.

“Yeah, well, plans change,” she quipped, feinting a punch. “Knock me off, and you'll have a clean shot.”

He hesitated again, his grip tightening on his weapon. Nyra’s heart pounded. “Do it,” she snapped, her tone fierce. “I’ll be fine.”

Ekko exhaled sharply. She could feel the weight of his decision as he swung. The bat slammed into her cheek, sending her flying off the hoverboard. Pain exploded through her side as she hit the ground, but she bit back a cry, rolling with the impact.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Ekko signal to the remaining Firelights. They swooped in, using the distraction to free their trapped comrades and lifting them onto their hoverboards. Ekko smashed the ceiling window with a powerful swing of his bat. Shards of glass rained down as the Firelights rose, green contrails streaking through the night.

Ekko paused, just for a second, his masked gaze falling on Nyra sprawled on the floor. Then, without a word, he followed his crew, vanishing into the night.

The sound of the beasts’ release filled the warehouse—a guttural roar that shook the air. Nyra groaned, dragging herself to her feet as the goons groaned in disbelief, some of them kicking or punching the decoy cargo.

---

Sevika stormed toward Nyra, who was still clutching her swelling cheek, the sting of the hit reverberating in her jaw. The towering woman loomed over her like a thundercloud, her eyes flashing with barely contained fury.

"You were supposed to guard the ceiling," Sevika growled, her voice low and dangerous.

Nyra looked up sheepishly, a weak grin tugging at her lips. "I didn’t think... me jumping into the fray would be that big of a deal."

The shimmer vials in Sevika’s mechanical arm flared, pulsing an ominous violet glow that matched the anger radiating from her. Her fingers twitched as if itching to inject the drug directly into her bloodstream, her jaw so tightly clenched that Nyra wondered if it might crack under the pressure.

"It wasn’t just a ‘big deal,’ Spark," Sevika said through gritted teeth, her voice trembling with restrained rage. "You ruined the plan. Silco’s going to have both our asses for this mess."

Nyra let out a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of her neck. "Come on, Sevika. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to Silco. Calm him down. You know me—I’ve got this."

Sevika’s snort of disbelief was sharp enough to cut through steel. She crouched down to pick up her poncho, brushing it off briskly before snapping it back over her mechanical arm. Standing straight again, she fixed Nyra with a glare so cold it could freeze a shimmer blaze.

"Don’t flatter yourself, Spark. You don’t ‘have’ anything. You’re not some hero in this story. You’re a liability." She gestured sharply toward the goons wrangling the now-docile shimmer monsters back into their reinforced vehicles. "Stay out of the field next time. You’re done. Silco’s orders or not, I’m not babysitting you again."

Nyra’s face paled. She opened her mouth to argue, but the words caught in her throat. Sevika turned on her heel, the sound of her boots pounding against the concrete echoing in the warehouse. Nyra watched, frozen in place, as the rest of the goons cast her sideways looks—some muttering under their breath, others barely masking their distrust of her.

Swallowing hard, Nyra puffed out a shaky breath, her bravado fading as she stared at her feet. The sting of Sevika’s words cut deeper than the punch, her dismissal leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

Determined not to let the others see her falter, she straightened up, rubbing the back of her neck as if shaking off the moment. When she stepped outside, Sevika was already disappearing into the shadows of the alley beyond. Nyra jogged after her, calling out, "Sevika! Come on, wait—"

But the older woman didn’t slow, didn’t even turn around. Nyra stopped in her tracks, her shoulders sagging as she watched Sevika vanish into the smog-filled streets of the Undercity.

---

Nyra dragged herself through the dim corridors of the Last Drop, her boots scuffing against the floor as she tried to stretch out the journey. She wasn’t ready to be scolded, not yet. Each step up the stairs felt heavier than the last, but she finally found herself in front of Silco’s office. For a long moment, she stared at the door, steeling herself, before giving it a tentative knock.

“Enter.”

The muffled command made her stomach twist. She pushed the door open to see Silco pacing, his lithe frame tense with barely restrained anger. Sevika stood rigid before him, her jaw clenched as she stared straight ahead, taking the brunt of his fury.

“You let them ruin the entire operation, Sevika. The trap was perfect. Months of planning—gone!” Silco’s voice cut through the air, sharp and biting.

Sevika didn’t flinch, though her knuckles whitened as her fists clenched tighter. Her eyes flicked to Nyra when she entered, blazing with annoyance. Nyra swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably under the heat of that glare.

Silco’s eyes turned to her, icy and piercing. “And you,” he hissed, his tone dangerously soft. “What exactly were you thinking?”

Nyra froze. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Silco’s gaze bore into her, his words slicing deeper with every syllable.

“You asked me—insisted—to be involved in this mission. I agreed, against my better judgment, because I believed you could handle it. But you neglected your post. The window. The only window the Firelights could use to escape. You left it unguarded because you couldn’t resist diving headfirst into the fray, could you?”

“I—” Nyra’s voice cracked, and she bit her lip, looking down at her boots.

“Stop.” Silco raised a hand, silencing her. His pacing resumed, his voice growing calmer but no less cutting. “Do you know what I expected of you? Calculated. Cunning. A young woman with a sharp mind who knows how to think before she acts. That’s the Spark I trusted to be part of my plans. This... impulsive behavior? It’s not you.”

Nyra’s shoulders hunched further with every word. She felt her shame bubbling up, heavy in her chest. She knew it was part of her plan, for her to act recklessly so that the Firelights had a fighting chance —but that didn’t make her feel any better about letting Silco down. Especially because he was right in a way. She had become more impulsive over the past few years.

Silco stopped pacing and leaned against his desk, rubbing his forehead with a tired sigh. “I know you’re struggling, Spark. I know you have your own demons, the same as Jinx. But you cannot afford to let those demons take the wheel. Not when we’re this close to something greater.”

Nyra clenched her fists, her throat tightening. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

Silco straightened, his tone shifting to something colder, more final. “From now on, Sevika will be your overseer.”

“What?” Nyra and Sevika burst out at the same time, their voices a mix of disbelief and protest.

Silco raised a hand again, silencing them both with a sharp slice through the air. “This isn’t up for discussion. Sevika will shadow you, make sure you stay out of trouble, and teach you what it means to act with discipline. You’ll learn from her, and she’ll get used to working alongside you, especially because you are vital to the cause.”

Nyra’s heart sank at Silco's words. Sevika’s expression darkened, but she said nothing, her jaw ticking in frustration.

Silco waved them off, sitting down behind his desk and pulling a stack of papers toward him. “That’s all. Dismissed.”

Sevika stormed out, her heavy boots echoing against the metal stairs as she descended without sparing Nyra another glance. Nyra felt as if she was getting Deja Vu - it seemed that these past few days every time she parted ways with Sevika, it always ended up with her storming away.

Nyra hesitated, glancing back at Silco. His gaze flicked up briefly, one eyebrow raised in silent expectation. She got the message.

Hurrying after Sevika, Nyra caught the door as it swung shut. She stepped into the hallway just in time to see Sevika’s broad back disappearing down the stairs.

“Sevika—”

The older woman didn’t even slow. She didn't even stop, descending the stairs and leaving Nyra standing alone.

Nyra sighed, her shoulders sagging. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her jacket as her thoughts churned. When had it all changed? When had she shifted from being the calculating, clever woman Silco described to the impulsive, reckless person she was now? She pressed her palms to her temples, shaking her head as if that might make the answer fall into place.

All she could hear was Silco’s disappointed tone echoing in her ears.

---

The day’s weight pressed against Nyra like a lead cloak. Her shoulders slumped, her fingers trailing along the rough walls of the Undercity as she wandered. She didn’t quite know where her legs were taking her until she glanced up and saw it.

That house. More specifically, the roof.

The place where Vi had sat on that first night, when they truly understood each other, and the place she returned to often after—staring out at the swirling lights of the Lanes, wearing that scowl that practically shouted, 'I’m brooding, approach at your own risk.' Nyra exhaled slowly, her breath shaky. She reached down, her fingers brushing over a small pebble, the smooth surface cool under her thumb. 

She climbed the familiar building slowly, her limbs moving like a creaky machine in desperate need of oil. By the time she reached the rooftop, the city’s muffled chaos buzzed below, far away and meaningless. She dropped down on the edge, letting her legs dangle like she used to when Vi would sit beside her.

The pebble turned in her fingers, a little fidget for the storm brewing in her mind. Her voice came out soft, broken.

“How’d it come to this, Pink?”

The pebble tumbled from one hand to the other.

“One day, I had you, the others… everything.” Her words cracked on the edge of a laugh. “Now it’s just me and Powder. And 'Echo'? 'Nyra'? I don’t even know who that is anymore.”

Nyra pressed her forehead against the pebble, letting its cool surface bite into her skin. “How do I even keep going like this? Alive, while you’re all… gone?”

She exhaled, a shaky breath that barely made it past her lips, and tilted her gaze to the crude paint drawing of Vi she’d etched on the chimney two years ago. It was faded now, rain and grime stealing its sharpness, but it still held that essence of her. The fire.

“What would you do, Pink?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind.

She pulled her knees to her chest, tears slipping down her cheeks as she stared at the portrait. “Why’d it have to be all of you? Why not me?”

The pebble landed gently next to the drawing as Nyra stood, her movements hesitant. She turned to leave, wiping at her face furiously, when—

“Figured I’d find you here.”

The voice sent a jolt down her spine. She spun on her heel, her hand flying to her chest. “By the fumes, Ekko!”

He was leaning on his hoverboard, arms crossed, his face unreadable. The corners of his lips twitched, maybe amusement, maybe something else. “You scare easy for someone who electrocutes bums in her free time.”

Nyra exhaled hard, rolling her eyes. “And you’ve got a bad habit of sneaking up on people.”

Ekko shrugged and pushed off the board, closing the gap between them. “I came by because I found one of your messages. The ones you left to warn me of the trap. Thought I should check in since it’s been, what, a century?”

Nyra waved him off. “You don’t have to apologize, Ekko. I get it. You don’t have to stick around if you don’t want to.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to,” she muttered, walking back toward the chimney. She sat down again, staring at the drawing.

Ekko followed her gaze and sighed. He sat down next to her, crossing his legs.“Wonder what she’d say if she saw us now.”

Nyra huffed, a small laugh escaping her despite herself. “She’d kick both our asses for being so dramatic.”

Ekko smirked, but the light in his eyes dimmed quickly. He glanced at his hands before looking at her, his tone dropping. “I owe you one, Nyra. But I need to say something, and you’re not gonna like it.”

Nyra’s brows furrowed, but she kept silent, letting him continue.

He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly wrestling with the words. “You told me all these stories about Grudge. How he was this stand-up guy, loyal to a fault, right?”

Nyra tilted her head. “What about him?”

“Does he sound like the kind of guy to just… vanish?”

Her lips parted, but no words came.

Ekko pressed on. “Nyra, I don’t think Grudge left. I think he’s dead. And I think Silco’s behind it.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She stood abruptly, glaring at him. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.” Ekko stood too, his hands held up in a placating gesture. “Think about it. Everything you told me about Silco, everything he’s done… Do you really think he’d let Grudge leave and not do anything about it?”

“Silco wouldn’t lie to me!” Her voice rose, sharp and defensive.

Ekko’s expression softened, but his voice stayed firm. “He wouldn’t? You think he’s been honest about everything? About Vander? About the others?”

Nyra’s breathing quickened, her hands balling into fists. “He didn’t kill them.”

“He didn’t have to,” Ekko shot back, his voice tinged with frustration. “But they died because of him. Because of what he started.”

“Shut up.”

“Nyra—”

“Just stop!” She clapped her hands over her ears, her head shaking violently. “I’m not listening to this!”

Ekko sighed deeply, the weight of it carrying more sorrow than anger. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pebble, and placed it by the Vi drawing.

“I’m not gonna push this anymore,” he said quietly. “But if you ever need me, leave a message. Just… not at the compromised safe house, alright? Leave it here.”

He stepped onto his hoverboard, pulling his mask down. He paused, looking back at her one last time.

“Think about it, Nyra.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving Nyra alone with her thoughts—and the pebble.

She stood there, trembling, the silence deafening. Slowly, she sat back down, her eyes locked on the Vi drawing, her mind swirling with doubt she desperately tried to suppress.

Chapter Text

“So… that’s how the war maiden ended up as your little bodyguard?” Dandelion asked, her tone dripping with amusement as she adjusted the straps on her patched-up boots.

Nyra huffed, throwing a sidelong glare at Sevika, who stood a few paces away, deep in negotiations with a scowling vendor. The older woman gestured impatiently at a pile of scrap metal, her face set in the permanent scowl Nyra had grown all too familiar with.

“More like my jailer,” Nyra muttered, crossing her arms.

Dandelion snorted. “A jailer you wanna bang,” she teased, nudging Nyra with her elbow.

Nyra’s face flushed hot, and she immediately shushed Dandelion, glancing around as though Sevika could somehow hear them from across the market. “Would you shut up?!” she hissed, swatting Dandy over the head.

“Ow!” Dandelion rubbed her head, her grin unfazed. “It’s not like I’m wrong. You get all flustered whenever she—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” Nyra warned, jabbing a finger in Dandelion’s direction. “And I’m not even sure I like her anymore, anyway. She’s always grumpy, always moody, and she barely talks unless you force her to. And when she does, it’s just to be snarky and mean!”

“Right,” Dandelion said, drawing the word out with exaggerated skepticism. “Because that’s not exactly what makes her hot.”

Nyra’s hand smacked down on Dandy’s head again, earning another dramatic “Ow!” before both girls dissolved into laughter.

As if on cue, Sevika stalked over, her heavy boots clunking against the cobblestones. She held a small bag of scrap in one hand and leveled the two girls with a withering glare. “While I adore your riveting banter,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm, “I do have a life of my own. I’m clocking out of guard-dog duty for the day.”

Nyra folded her arms and huffed, not even looking at her. “Bye,” she said curtly.

Sevika’s lips twitched as she turned and walked off, her broad shoulders cutting through the crowd.

Dandelion let out a low whistle. “Frosty, huh? You two have got issues.”

“Tell me about it,” Nyra said, rolling her eyes as the two of them made their way down the bustling street toward Powder’s workshop.

---

The workshop buzzed softly with the hum of machinery and the occasional clink of Powder's tools. Powder balanced precariously on a stool, one foot hooked around its backrest for support as she tied a strand of tinsel-like material around a beam. Scattered about were small ornaments, cobbled together from scrap metal and bits of glass, catching the light in soft, dreamy colors. On one of the rotor blades, a crude chalk doodle of Janna—a tall, ethereal figure with swirling winds at her feet—beamed with a smile only a teenager could have drawn.

Dandelion reclined on the broken-down couch nearby, lazily twirling a screwdriver between her fingers. She raised an eyebrow at Powder's handiwork and snorted. "Seriously, Jinx? How old are you? Still believing in Janna?"

The words barely left her mouth before Nyra's hand darted out, smacking Dandelion on the head. "Show some respect," Nyra said with mock sternness, though the smile tugging at her lips gave her away.

Dandelion groaned dramatically, rubbing her head. "I swear, I'm your punching bag today."

Powder shrugged, barely sparing them a glance as she adjusted her decorations. "I don’t believe in her, not really," she said quietly, her voice steady but tinged with something softer. "It’s just… It’s a story my sis—" She paused, her fingers tightening briefly on the ribbon she was tying. "It’s a story my family used to tell me. Back when we were… you know, together. So, I want to at least have that."

Nyra’s teasing expression melted away, replaced by something tender. She stood and crossed the workshop, wrapping her arms around Powder in a warm, protective hug. Powder froze for a moment, then relaxed, leaning slightly into the embrace.

"That’s really sweet, Bug," Nyra said softly, her voice low and comforting.

Powder glanced up at her, her eyes glinting in the dim light. "You’re not gonna cry on me, are you?"

Nyra chuckled, pulling back slightly but keeping her hands on Powder’s shoulders. "Not this time."

A moment of silence passed between them before Nyra pursed her lips, hesitation flickering across her face. She opened her mouth, closed it, then tried again. Powder tilted her head, her expression caught somewhere between exasperation and fondness.

"Just spit it out," Powder sighed. "If you want to invite Ekko to dinner tonight so we can, air quote, 'reconnect,' just do it. I’m fine with it. For now."

Nyra blinked, surprised by how easily Powder had read her thoughts. Then a wide grin broke across her face. "Really? You don’t mind?"

Powder shrugged, climbing down from the stool. "It’s Janna’s Day. I feel… festive, I guess. And who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky and convince him Silco isn’t the monster he thinks he is."

Nyra beamed, sweeping Powder into another tight hug. "I love you, little bug," she said, planting a kiss on the top of Powder’s head. "You’re the best."

Powder wrinkled her nose but didn’t pull away. "Yeah, yeah. Just don’t make me regret it."

Nyra released her and strode toward the rock walls surrounding the workshop, her movements fluid and confident. As she began climbing, Dandelion’s voice rang out from behind her.

"Wait, you’re leaving me here?" Dandelion called, incredulous.

Nyra paused mid-climb, glancing back sheepishly. "Help Blue with the decorations, will you?"

Dandelion threw her hands up in mock despair. "Oh, sure, leave me with the glitter and doodles. I love that."

Powder chuckled, tugging on Dandelion’s arm. "You’re great at it. Plus, you love me."

Dandelion groaned, letting herself be dragged toward the table of ornaments. "I do love you, but I hate decorating. I’ll do it, though. Just for you. Because you’re special."

Nyra shook her head, laughing softly to herself as she vaulted over the edge of the rocky outcrop. The sound of Powder’s giggles and Dandelion’s grumbling followed her as she disappeared into the maze of the Undercity.

---

Nyra meandered through the Promenade’s bustling bazaar, the smoky air swirling with the scent of sizzling meat skewers, oil lamps, and the faint tang of chemical fumes. Vendors barked out deals for everything from finely carved trinkets to decidedly illegal animals and materials that people either avoided like the plague or flocked to like moths to a flame. Her pouch of coins jingled lightly in her hands as she browsed, her gaze darting from one glittering display to the next.

She slowed at a stall lined with jewelry, catching the glint of polished silver necklaces and chunky rings adorned with luminous crystals. Whistling softly, she tilted her head, staring at the pieces while still walking forward.

That’s when she walked straight into a wall of muscle.

"Ow!" Nyra stumbled back, clutching her pouch tightly to her chest. Her eyes traveled up, starting with the poncho slung casually over a broad left shoulder. Thick, muscular thighs clad in tight pants anchored a trim waist, a tank top revealing two massive arms - one toned and muscular, the other - mechanical and hissing faintly. A black choker sat snugly against a neck corded with sinew and power, leading up to an angular jawline and a familiar scowl.

"Sevika," Nyra breathed, blinking at the mercenary like a deer caught in headlights.

Sevika raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Finished staring?"

Nyra’s cheeks burned as she chuckled nervously, holding her coin pouch as if it could shield her from Sevika’s judgment. "Uh... didn’t expect to see you here. Shouldn’t you be, uh… enjoying your free time?" Her voice cracked embarrassingly on the last words.

Sevika’s eyes narrowed as she tilted her head slightly. "I am."

The silence that followed was deafening, the din of the market fading into background noise as they stared at each other. Nyra, desperate to break the awkwardness, blurted out, "So… uh, what’re you doing now?"

Sevika closed her eyes and sighed as if summoning every ounce of patience she could muster. "Looking for something," she finally said, her voice flat.

"Something? Well, I’m looking for some things too!" Nyra chirped, trying to inject a little cheer into the conversation. "Gifts, actually. You know, for Blue and everyone else. Janna's day. Festive spirit and all that." She gave a lopsided grin. "Maybe we could, you know... look together?"

Sevika’s scowl deepened, her sharp grey eyes locking onto Nyra like she was sizing up an opponent.

Nyra swallowed hard. "I mean... it could be fun? Or... at least... uh... not miserable? It’s, um, important that we… get along." Her words tumbled over themselves, and she barely resisted the urge to slap a hand over her mouth.

For a moment, Sevika didn’t move. Then she huffed through her nose, turned on her heel, and started walking away.

Nyra’s heart sank as she rubbed her arm to console herself. "Well, that went about as well as expected," she muttered under her breath, forcing a little laugh to drown out the sting of rejection.

"Are you just going to stand there like an idiot all day?" Sevika’s annoyed voice cut through the haze. She had stopped a few paces ahead, her head turned just enough to fix Nyra with a sharp look. "Or are you coming?"

Nyra froze, then grinned so wide it felt like her face might split. "Right! Coming!" she chirped, practically skipping to catch up.

Sevika rolled her eyes and muttered something unintelligible as they walked side by side into the maze of stalls.

---

Nyra skipped a step to catch up to Sevika, who strode through the crowded streets with purpose, her broad shoulders parting the throng like a prow through water. Vendors called out their wares, shimmering trinkets and sputtering gadgetry piled high on weathered wooden stalls, but Sevika’s eyes darted only briefly, scanning the offerings before moving on.

“Seriously,” Nyra huffed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “What are you even looking for?”

Sevika glanced down at her, her expression flat. “Parts,” she said curtly, then kept walking.

Nyra rolled her eyes, quickening her pace again to match Sevika’s long-legged stride. “Gee, you don’t say,” she muttered, earning a fleeting, humorless smirk from the taller woman.

“Then why’d you ask?” Sevika drawled, not bothering to look back.

“Because I’m trying to have a conversation with my assigned guard dog,” Nyra shot back, her tone just short of a bark. “You know, lighten the mood a little?”

Sevika’s brow lifted slightly, and for a moment, her lips quirked in something like a wry grin. “Lighten away,” she said, her voice still as dry as sandpaper.

Undeterred, Nyra stopped at a stall brimming with colorful spray paints and small trinkets. “Hold up a sec,” she called, picking through the items with careful hands. Her fingers brushed against a bright can of electric blue paint, and she smiled, imagining Powder's delighted face.

She added a pendant to her pile—a delicate one etched with a bird mid-flight. Dandelion had always gushed about birds, and it felt... right. Nyra’s smile softened as she picked out a smaller pendant shaped like a cloud, Powder's wistful voice echoing in her memory: "I wanna see the sky up close someday."

Pocketing both, Nyra glanced sidelong at Sevika, who stood at a distance, arms crossed as she eyed the stalls with disinterest. Nyra added one last item to her purchase: a sleek cigarillo holder. She hid a smirk as she paid, tucking the item into her satchel.

“Done?” Sevika’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Yeah, yeah,” Nyra replied breezily, waving for Sevika to keep walking.

---

As they moved through the market, Nyra jabbed at the silence again. “So, what are these parts for anyway? You working on some secret project?”

Sevika gave a short hum, her gaze flicking over Nyra. “Not really something I want to share.”

Nyra groaned dramatically, tossing her hands in the air. “You’re such a grumpy woman, Sev.”

“Told you so,” Sevika said with a nonchalant shrug, which only fueled Nyra’s frustration.

When they reached a stall selling metal parts and paint, Sevika quickly picked out what she needed, scowling as she shoved a few cans of brightly colored paint into her satchel.

Nyra raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching upward. “You gonna tell me those are for your project too?”

Sevika gave her a sharp look, one that clearly said, Don’t push it.

They paused in unison in front of a stall lined with high-end cigarillos. Their eyes met briefly, and an unspoken agreement passed between them. Each grabbed a pack.

Nyra slid hers into her bag, and then her gaze caught on a small ring carved with a tiny clock face. Her heart ached slightly as she picked it up, her thoughts drifting to Ekko. She added it to her haul with a faint smile.

Her eyes snagged on another item: a roll of hand wraps, similar to the ones Vi used to wrap around her hands. She let out a soft breath, picking it up and paying without a second thought.

Nyra turned on her heel, tilting her head back to Sevika. “One more stop. You’re welcome to tag along, but you might wanna leave the grumpy act here.”

Sevika raised an eyebrow but followed as Nyra led her to a nondescript building tucked into the edges of the market. Without hesitation, Nyra bent over and picked up a pebble, then scrambled up its weathered façade, her boots catching on crumbling edges as she climbed to the roof. Sevika sighed heavily, muttering something under her breath, and reluctantly followed.

When Sevika reached the top, she found Nyra kneeling before a lovingly detailed portrait painted on the chimney—Vi’s unmistakable pink hair vibrant against the grime-streaked bricks.

Nyra greeted the portrait softly, brushing her fingers over the painted edge as if greeting an old friend. She set the hand wraps down beneath it with care, alongside a small folded note and the pebble.

Sevika shifted uncomfortably, crossing her arms. She glanced at the note, assuming it was directed to Vi, but said nothing.

The rooftop was quiet, save for the hum of the Undercity below.

Nyra perched on the edge of the roof, her legs dangling over the side. She patted the spot next to her, glancing at Sevika with a small smile. “Come on, sit down. The view’s better from here.”

Sevika crossed her arms, her discomfort plain. “I don’t do sappy shit,” she muttered, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

Nyra chuckled, brushing her hair out of her face. “Good thing this isn’t sappy then. I just wanted to visit some family.” Her voice softened as her eyes roamed the streets below, lit by flickering neon signs and the occasional glow of shimmer. She exhaled deeply. “Thought I’d show you something a little more... personal.”

Sevika raised an eyebrow but eventually dropped into a seated position, her mechanical arm glinting in the dim light as she adjusted it. “Alright,” she said quietly. “Let’s hear it.”

Nyra smiled. “I just think... if we’re going to do this whole ‘tolerating each other for Silco’ thing, we might as well try to respect each other too.” She glanced sideways at Sevika, her tone light but her eyes sincere. “Figured we could start here.”

Sevika gave a noncommittal grunt, fiddling with the plates on her arm. “Fine. Go on, then.”

Nyra’s grin widened as she leaned back, shoulders relaxed. "You know," she started, her tone lighter now, "I used to be mute." She chuckled softly at the memory, her fingers ghosting over the scar on her neck. "Spent most of my childhood signing to people. Trash-talked the pompous douchebags from above every chance I got. And, y'know, it’s a good thing I couldn't talk, 'cause the things I would’ve said..." Her voice trailed off, a playful glint in her eye.

"I can still sign," Nyra continued, suddenly leaning in with a mischievous grin. She signed quickly with a wink, "You are incredibly attractive."

Sevika’s eyebrow shot up. “What the hell does that mean?”

Nyra let out a mischievous laugh, shaking her head. “Relax. I just said you’re not as grumpy as I thought you’d be.”

“Uh-huh.” Sevika’s skeptical expression lingered, but she leaned back slightly, her posture less stiff.

---

For a while, they simply stared out into the neon-soaked abyss, Nyra swinging her legs over the edge like an unruly child while Sevika leaned back, her expression unreadable.

Finally, Sevika reached into her satchel with her flesh arm, her movements slow and deliberate. She pulled out a small bundle, its rough cloth wrapping muted against the garish glow of the Undercity's lights. Clearing her throat awkwardly, she handed it to Nyra.

“What’s this?” Nyra asked, her eyes lighting up with curiosity.

“Paints,” Sevika said gruffly, her tone almost begrudging. “For the little gremlin. Or—well, she’s not so little anymore. You said she wanted to celebrate Janna’s Day... or whatever.”

Nyra blinked at her, then let out a loud, delighted laugh. “Sevika, you old softie! You’re spoiling Blue, huh?”

Sevika rolled her eyes and looked away, muttering, “Just don’t make a thing out of it.”

Nyra’s grin stretched even wider as she tucked the paints carefully into her pocket. “You’re lucky I like you,” she teased, her voice warm.

Reaching into her own jacket pocket, Nyra pulled out the sleek, polished cigarillo holder. With a small, shy smile, she extended it toward Sevika.

“Here,” she said, her voice softer now. “Got you something too. For putting up with me and agreeing to... well, this.”

Sevika’s brows knit together as she stared at the gift. After a beat, she reached out—not with the prosthetic, but with her flesh hand—and plucked the holder from Nyra’s fingertips. Their hands brushed briefly, and Nyra felt a faint heat rise to her cheeks.

Sevika turned the cigarillo holder over in her hand, examining it with a quiet intensity. She didn’t say a word, but her grip on it tightened slightly, a silent acknowledgment.

Wordlessly, Sevika pulled a cigarillo from her satchel and slid it into the holder, lighting it with a rehearsed motion. She took a slow drag, the ember glowing faintly in the dark, and exhaled a curl of smoke into the cold air.

Nyra leaned back, still smiling. “It suits you,” she said softly, her gaze fixed on the horizon.

Sevika didn’t respond, but the faintest trace of a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth as she took another drag.

---

After a while, Sevika sighed, as if weighing a decision, and reached into the satchel resting by her side. The sound of beads clinking against each other filled the silence as she pulled out a delicate bracelet, its beads glowing with a faint electric shimmer and streaks of gold running through them. It looked like something out of a dream.

She turned it over in her hand for a moment before holding it out to Nyra. “Here,” she said, her voice gruff. “For you.”

Nyra blinked, taken aback. “What—why?”

Sevika shifted uncomfortably. “Don’t make it a thing, alright? I thought it might...” She trailed off, her gaze flicking to the streetlights below. “...help. With this tolerating thing.”

The silence stretched awkwardly as Nyra stared at the bracelet. Sevika started to retract her hand. “Look, if you don’t want it—”

“No!” Nyra blurted, grabbing it quickly. “No, I just—” She fumbled for words, her cheeks flushing. “It’s beautiful. Really. And thoughtful.”

Sevika looked away, muttering, “Don’t take it to heart.”

Nyra’s grin grew wide as she suddenly threw her arms around Sevika in a quick hug. Sevika froze, her shoulders stiff as a board. “What—what the hell are you doing?”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Nyra chanted, laughing. She pulled back as Sevika stared at her with a deadpan expression, clearly unimpressed. “Not a hugger then, huh?” she teased, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Not even close.” Sevika’s tone was flat, but there was the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

Nyra beamed at her. “Well, maybe someday we’ll be real friends.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.” Sevika stood, brushing off her pants, a playful scowl tugging at her lips.

---

Nyra returned to the workshop, landing on one of the massive rotor blades that formed its foundation. She paused, looking around, her eyes lighting up with surprise. Powder and Dandelion had added to the chaotic charm of the place: new scribbles of Janna and gusting wind decorated the walls, their whimsical lines swirling alongside older sketches. A small, rickety table stood proudly in the center of the room, laden with mismatched plates of food.

Walking over to the battered couch, Nyra let out a low whistle, her mood lifting instantly. Powder’s excited chatter filled the space as she gestured wildly to something Dandelion could barely muster the energy to look at. The older girl was sprawled on the couch like a marionette with its strings cut, one arm flung dramatically over her face.

Nyra chuckled, shaking her head as she bent down to kiss Powder on the top of her head. "Always this dramatic, or is this a special occasion?" she teased, nodding toward Dandelion.

Powder smirked, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Dandy's always lazy. Took her, like, ten minutes to get tired."

Dandelion huffed in mock indignation, lowering her arm just enough to glare at Powder. "Excuse me, but I am one of Silco's best fighters. I’m on my feet all day—unlike some hormonal teenagers who are professionally annoying."

Powder snorted, her smirk widening. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, old lady."

Groaning, Dandelion grabbed a nearby pillow and hurled it at Powder, missing by a mile before sinking back into the couch with a defeated sigh. Powder laughed, and Nyra joined in, her gaze warm as she exchanged a knowing look with Powder.

Nyra gestured toward one of the Janna drawings, tilting her head to signal Powder to follow. As they walked over, Nyra draped an arm over Powder’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “You did wonderfully, Bug,” she said softly, her voice brimming with pride.

Powder glanced up at her, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Thanks, Nyra,” she murmured, her tone uncharacteristically bashful. “I don’t say it enough, but… I’m glad I have you.”

Before Nyra could react, Powder wrapped her arms around her, hugging her tightly. The sudden display of affection caught Nyra off guard, and for a moment, she stood there, blinking in surprise. Then her face softened, and she hugged Powder back, pressing a kiss to the top of her head again.

“Look at you,” Nyra teased after a moment, her tone light and playful. “Puberty hit you like a freight train, and yet, you’re still my little squishy marshmallow deep down.”

Powder groaned, pulling back just far enough to give Nyra an exaggeratedly disgusted look. “Gross. Who calls someone a marshmallow?”

Nyra grinned, pinching Powder’s cheeks with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Oh, but you are my cute little baby!” she cooed, shaking her from side to side like a proud grandmother.

“Ugh! Stop it!” Powder flailed, swatting at Nyra’s hands and ducking away with a scowl. “You’re worse than Dandelion!”

“Hey!” Dandelion’s voice floated over from the couch, though she didn’t bother to lift her head.

Still laughing, Powder turned back toward the table, straightening her messy hair. “Come on, you ancient creatures. Sit down before the food gets cold.”

Dandelion groaned loudly, dragging herself off the couch like it was the hardest thing she’d ever done. She plodded over to the table, her dramatics earning a snicker from Nyra.

“Thanks for the feast, Baby Blue,” Nyra said as she slid into a seat beside her. She grabbed a plate and beamed at Powder, her earlier frustrations melting away.

Powder sat beside her, grinning despite herself. “Don’t mention it. But next time, you’re setting up.”

Nyra laughed, nudging Powder playfully. “Deal. Just don’t expect it to look half this good.”

---

Powder poked at her plate with a fork, her eyes darting to the empty chair at the table. She didn’t linger long, but it was impossible to miss. Nyra noticed—of course, she noticed. She leaned forward, her voice soft. “He’ll come, Bug. It’ll take him some time to see my message, that’s all.”

Powder looked down, her lips pursed but didn’t respond.

Just then, the faint hum of a hoverboard grew louder, cutting through the tension. It crescendoed into a buzzing roar as Ekko zipped past the workbench, executing a tight spin before landing on the rotor blade. He hopped off his hoverboard, leaning it against the nearest chair.

“Uh… hey,” he said tentatively, one hand awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck.

Powder’s eyes flicked up, and for a moment, she froze. Nyra’s gaze bounced between the two, her lips tugging into a resigned sigh. Without missing a beat, she stood and strode over to Ekko, wrapping him in a quick, warm hug before steering him to the table.

“Come on, sit. How’ve you been?”

“Fine,” he replied, his voice stiff and quiet as he settled into the chair.

The silence that followed was the kind that crawled up walls and crept into corners. Nyra, refusing to let it fester, piled some food onto Ekko’s plate and slid it toward him with a pointed look that could’ve cut glass.

Powder’s arms folded tight across her chest as she stared daggers at Ekko. He mirrored her pose, his expression just as defiant. Nyra groaned audibly, her forehead thunking against the edge of the table. “Will you two just talk it out already? Or at least eat?”

Powder was the first to speak. “I don’t know what to say to him.”

Ekko raised his eyebrows. “Oh, maybe something like, ‘I was wrong about Silco’?”

Powder’s fork clattered to her plate as her eyes flared. “Wrong about Silco? You’re the one who’s wrong about Silco!”

And just like that, the bickering began. Voices overlapped, punctuated by sharp gestures and jabs. Nyra exchanged a long-suffering look with Dandelion, who had been quietly observing the drama unfold. Finally, Nyra shot to her feet, slamming her palms against the table.

“Enough!” Her voice, loud and cutting, silenced the room. Powder and Ekko both turned their glares toward her, united only in their mutual annoyance.

Nyra sighed and sank back into her chair, fixing Ekko with a pointed look. “Ekko, maybe don’t bring up heavy topics at the table? Just a thought.”

Ekko bristled, leaning back and crossing his arms. “It’s an important topic if we’re going to reconcile.”

“Oh, shut up!” Powder snapped. “Your opinions don’t even matter anymore.”

Nyra’s head snapped toward Powder, her glare sharp enough to carve stone. “Respect him a little more, Blue. Whatever we all think about Silco, his existence shouldn’t destroy our relationships.”

Ekko huffed, his jaw tight, but said nothing. Nyra shifted her attention back to him, her tone softer but still firm. “Do you want to reconcile or not?”

Ekko hesitated, his gaze flicking between Nyra and Powder. Finally, he sighed. “Fine.”

Nyra turned to Powder, raising an eyebrow. Powder groaned, slumping back in her chair. “Fine.”

They sat there for a moment, glaring at each other across the table like two cats daring the other to make the first move. Dandelion, who had been munching quietly on a roll, so similar to a friend they all once shared and lost, finally broke the tension.

“So, uh, anyone gonna eat that dessert or can I eat it all?”

Nyra let out a quiet chuckle. Ekko’s lips twitched, then broke into a full grin. Powder blinked, then let out a small giggle that quickly turned into full-blown laughter. In seconds, the entire table was shaking with laughter, the earlier tension melting away like frost in the morning sun.

Dandelion stared at them, one eyebrow raised. “I don’t even know what’s so funny,” she muttered, shaking her head.

The laughter only grew louder.

"You wouldn't get it."

---

Nyra strode into the Last Drop, her boots clicking against the worn wooden planks. The atmosphere buzzed with the usual rowdy energy—patrons shouting over heavy music and clinking glasses. She ascended the staircase leading to Silco’s office, her steps slowing as she noticed a familiar figure standing in front of the office.

Sevika stood there, rapping her knuckles against the heavy door. Nyra halted, blinking in surprise. “Sevika?” she blurted out.

The woman turned her head slightly, one brow arching in her trademark skeptical look. “Spark,” she said flatly, her voice laced with surprise.

Nyra opened her mouth to ask what Sevika was doing there, but before she could, Silco’s smooth, measured voice called out from inside.

“Come in.”

Sevika pushed the door open, stepping aside and holding it for Nyra. “After you, little lady,” she said dryly.

Nyra stepped into the dimly lit room, the scent of cigar smoke and leather wrapping around her. She hesitated near the desk, glancing nervously at Silco, seated with his sharp gaze locked on her.

“If this is a bad time, I can come back later,” she said quickly, motioning toward Sevika. “Important meeting or something, right?”

Silco raised a brow, his expression softening just slightly. “Not at all. Sevika?”

Sevika shook her head, adjusting the strap of her satchel. “Just dropping something off.”

Nyra exhaled and fidgeted, pulling something out of her jacket. “Oh. Well, same here,” she said, her voice lighter. She placed the sleek, polished pack of cigarillos that she bought while at the bazaar with Sevika on Silco’s desk with a nervous grin. “Happy Janna Day!”

Silco’s eyes flickered down to the gift, then back up at her. A small smile touched his lips. “Thoughtful as always. Thank you, little Spark.”

Nyra beamed and impulsively leaned forward to hug him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders briefly before stepping back. Silco remained composed but patted her arm lightly before turning his attention to Sevika.

“Now,” he says, “what about you, Sevika? Something wrong?”

Nyra turned her head to Sevika, who was staring at Silco with a rare, almost sheepish expression. Sevika cleared her throat, reaching into her satchel. “Nothing wrong,” she muttered. “I just had... the same idea.”

She placed her own pack of the same high-quality cigarillos on the desk, right next to Nyra’s.

Nyra’s reaction was instant—she burst into laughter, clutching her stomach as she leaned against the back of a chair. “You’re kidding me! This is too good!”

Silco blinked, looking between the two identical gifts, his face an unreadable mix of surprise and amusement.

Sevika smirked faintly, crossing her arms. “Seems like you’re predictable, Silco.”

Silco shook his head with a low chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Perhaps.” He looked between them again, humor gleaming in his sharp eyes. “Now, both of you—out. Before you clutter my desk further.”

Nyra wiped a tear from her eye, still giggling as she turned to leave. Sevika followed, and as the door closed behind them, they exchanged a glance.

Nyra grinned up at Sevika. “Guess great minds think alike, huh?”

Sevika rolled her eyes but couldn't help the tiny smirk tugging at her lips. “Don’t get used to it, Spark.”

Chapter Text

Hi cutie patooties!
My next chapter will come out in 2-3 days since I am preparing for an exam <3
But worry not! I will continue with regular uploads after that <3

here - a Vi pic for your troubles!

credit: u/Hahahuhi504 

Chapter Text

Nyra sat cross-legged in front of the chimney, idly twisting a small pebble between her fingers. Her head was bowed, her braid falling over her shoulder, as she puffed out a slow breath.

Behind her, Sevika stood with arms crossed, her hulking frame silhouetted against the gray-green glow of the city. She was quiet too, her gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. If she was annoyed about their usual visit to the memorial, she didn’t show it.

Nyra’s thoughts drifted. She could almost see Janna’s Day in her mind’s eye, as vivid as if it had been yesterday.

Powder’s face when Nyra had pulled out the gifts—eyes sparkling, grin stretching wide, hands clasped in anticipation. Dandelion springing to her feet like a jack-in-the-box, practically vibrating with excitement. The look of surprise on Ekko’s face, like he couldn’t believe she’d thought of him.

She remembered handing Powder the cloud pendant, a delicate little thing carved to look like a wisp of sky. Powder had stared at it for a moment, her big eyes glistening, before looking up at Nyra.

Nyra had smiled softly, leaning in to whisper, “I’ll never forget your wish to see the sky up close.”

The hug that followed nearly knocked her off her feet. Powder had clung to her, thanking her over and over until Nyra laughed and patted her back, muttering something about how she wasn’t made of steel.

Then there were the paints—Powder’s other gift, from both Nyra and Sevika. She’d practically torn the packaging apart, babbling about how surprised she was that the "ogre" thought to give her a gift, immediately cracking open the tubes and smearing bold streaks of color across the massive rotor blades that formed the floor of her workshop. Ekko’s look of amusement was priceless.

And Dandelion. The bird pendant. Nyra could still feel the tightness of that hug, Dandelion’s arms wrapped around her like she was trying to squeeze the gratitude into her bones.

Finally, there was Ekko’s gift. The small ring with a tiny clock face, the hands frozen at four. She remembered how he’d stared at it, wide-eyed, before slipping it onto his finger with surprising care.

“I didn’t get you anything,” he’d said, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck.

Nyra had pulled him into a hug, laughing. “Your presence is gift enough, Little Man.”

The memory should’ve ended there, warm and bright. But instead, it veered and bled into another. She remembered the unease in Ekko’s eyes when he glanced up at her, the Undercity behind his back and the Vi memorial next to him. She remembered the words that had followed like a knife to the ribs.

“Nyra, I don’t think Grudge left. I think he’s dead. And I think Silco’s behind it.”

Nyra blinked, her thumb and forefinger tightening on the pebble. She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. Not now.

“Done sulking yet?” Sevika’s voice cut through her thoughts.

Nyra glanced up to find Sevika already looking at her, one brow raised.

“Yeah, yeah,” Nyra muttered, standing and dusting her hands and butt off. She crouched briefly, placing the pebble next to the small pile she’d accumulated on her previous visits. A quiet tribute, nothing grand. Just something to remind her of the night she and Vi no longer saw each other as enemies.

Turning to Sevika, she asked with a smirk, “So, when’s your guard dog duty over? Or are you actually enjoying my company for once?”

Sevika let out a tiny huff of air, barely a laugh, her lips curling in faint amusement. “Guard duty was over ten minutes ago,” she said.

Nyra raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “Oh? So you’re just here because you like me that much?”

Sevika scoffed. “You’re getting pretty bold, Spark,” she muttered. “Next time we come here, I’m interrupting your sappy time.”

Nyra rolled her eyes, grinning playfully. “You’re all heart, Sev.”

She turned and started down the crumbling facade of the building, her boots thumping against the stone. Sevika lingered for a moment, pulling a pebble from her pocket. She looked at it, then at the Vi portrait, her expression uncomfortable. With a sigh and a respectful nod at the drawing, she set the pebble down next to Nyra’s pile before following her down.

When she landed beside Nyra, she asked, “Where to now?

Nyra knew that Sevika wasn't asking out of the kindness of her heart - she was supposed to make sure that she wouldn't do anything stupid. 

Nyra shrugged. “The big boss.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Shoo, Sev. You’re free to go.”

Sevika nodded briskly, turning on her heel without another word. Nyra barely got a second to admire her retreating form before she realized she was staring.

Flustered, she shook her head and started walking toward the Last Drop.

---

The hallway outside Silco’s office felt longer than it had any right to be. Nyra stood in front of the door, her fingers fidgeting with the strap of her satchel, breathing in and out like a steam engine trying not to explode.

It’s just Silco. You’ve talked to him a million times. This is no different. Well...except for the part where I’m questioning his entire moral compass.

She scowled at herself, shaking her head and tugging on the braid that hung down her back. With a deep breath, she knocked.

“Come in.”

Silco’s voice, low and measured, cut through the heavy door. It made her jump despite herself. Steeling her nerves, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The scent of cigarillo smoke hit her immediately. Silco was seated in his chair, one arm resting on the armrest, his fingers curled around a stack of documents, while the other held a slim cigarillo between his fingers. She recognized it—it was from the set she’d given him on Janna’s Day. He took a slow drag, the ember glowing briefly, before exhaling a plume of smoke that curled toward the ceiling.

His mismatched eyes flicked to her as she entered, and though his expression didn’t shift much, there was a faint glimmer of warmth in his gaze.

“Spark,” he greeted with a small nod.

She tried to smile back but it came out more like a grimace. Her fingers moved to her braid, twisting it nervously as she walked to his desk and stood there, unsure of what to do with herself. She could feel his sharp gaze on her, like he was already dissecting whatever she hadn’t said yet.

Silco leaned back in his chair, setting the papers in his hand down onto the desk with an audible thwap. “Spit it out,” he said simply, smoke curling lazily from his lips.

Nyra huffed, puffing her cheeks out before letting the air rush out in a dramatic sigh. “I’m getting to it.” She plopped herself down onto his desk, legs crossed, her elbows on her knees as she cradled her head in her hands. She stared at the stack of documents in front of her, lips rolling back and forth as she tried to find the right words.

Silco said nothing, watching her with patient silence.

Finally, she exhaled slowly. “There are some things…” she began, her voice quiet, “...that someone told me. And I guess they’re...bothering me.”

He didn’t move, his gaze fixed on her, but there was a subtle shift in the air, as if he was preparing himself for what she might say.

Nyra twisted the end of her braid around her finger. “They said…” she hesitated, glancing at him before looking back down at the desk. Her voice grew softer, more vulnerable. “They said you’re poisoning the Undercity with shimmer.”

For a moment, Silco’s face was a blank slate, unreadable as stone.

Nyra’s words tumbled out, almost like she was trying to fill the silence before it could crush her. “I mean, I’ve always trusted you. I’ve always believed in you. Never doubted you, not for a second. But then I realized...I never actually asked you. If it’s true or not. And, well...since I’m kinda alive because of shimmer, I don’t even know what to think anymore.”

She risked a glance at him, her eyes flickering with uncertainty.

Silco leaned back further in his chair, letting out a low sigh through his nose. “They’re wrong,” he said finally, his voice calm but firm. “Shimmer doesn’t poison. It heals. It strengthens. It makes people better, faster, stronger—gives them a fighting chance in a world that would otherwise crush them.”

Nyra let out a shaky breath, a small, relieved smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Okay,” she whispered, almost to herself.

But then her smile faded, her fingers tightening around the braid in her hands. “There’s...something else they said.”

Silco’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his expression remained unreadable.

“It’s something I don’t believe,” she added quickly, “and I mean that, really. But...I wanted to tell you anyway. Just...to get it out there.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “They said you were lying about Grudge. That he didn’t leave after the explosion. That you…” She hesitated, her throat tightening. “That you killed him. I know, you've told me countless times that you two were as close as brothers but something separated you. I just... had to tell you this.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the faint crackle of the cigarillo in Silco’s hand. His expression flickered with something—something she couldn’t quite name—before his features smoothed over, cold and controlled once more.

He leaned forward, extinguishing his cigarillo in his gold ashtray before resting his elbows on the desk and interlacing his fingers. “Spark,” he said slowly, his tone measured, “Grudge and I had our differences. But I wouldn’t do that to him. Out of respect for our brotherhood, if nothing else.”

Nyra watched him closely, her unease flickering in her eyes like a candle caught in a draft.

Silco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly before standing up and pulling on his coat, fixing his gold cufflinks. “Come,” he said, gesturing for her to follow.

Nyra blinked, startled. “What? Where are we going?”

“Somewhere to ease your worries.”

---

The murky waters lapped at Nyra’s waist, cold enough to sting. She gritted her teeth and clutched her jacket tighter around herself, the fabric already damp from the misty air. Her shoes dangled from one hand, their weight oddly comforting. Ahead of her, Silco waded slowly, his movements calm and deliberate, his fingertips trailing through the water as if tracing the past itself.

He stopped and glanced back at her, his corrupted eye catching the dim light. “Ever wonder what it’s like to drown?” he asked softly, his voice carrying over the stillness of the waters.

Nyra blinked, taken aback by the question. “Can’t say it’s been high on my list of things to try,” she quipped, her tone light, a nervous chuckle escaping her lips.

Silco didn’t laugh. Instead, he turned back to the water, raising his hand to touch his ruined eye. “It is a tory of opposites, child,” he began, his voice dipping low. “There’s peace in water. Like it’s holdin’ you, whisperin’ in low tones to let it in. And every problem in the world... fades away.”

Nyra shivered, her arms tightening around herself. She opened her mouth to say something, but he continued, his words taking on a sharper edge.

“But then there’s this thing,” he said, his hand falling back to his side. “In your head. And it’s raging. Lighting every nerve with madness.” He paused, glancing at her. “And all the while, this question lingers before you: ‘Have you had enough?’”

The air felt heavier, charged with the weight of his words. Nyra swallowed, the reactor in her chest stuttering.

“It’s funny,” Silco mused, his lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. “You could pass a lifetime without ever facing a choice like that. But it changes you forever. And for that, I am thankful.”

Nyra stared at him, her mouth dry. Her voice came out smaller than she intended. “You’re... thankful?”

“For that, I thank them,” Silco said, his tone unreadable. He looked at her then, and for a moment, she thought she saw something human beneath the ruthless exterior. “My brothers.”

Nyra’s brow furrowed, her mind racing. “Brothers like… Vander?”

Silco didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned his hand palm-up, letting the filthy water trickle through his fingers. “Indeed, child. There were three of us,” he said at last. “United by a cause bigger than any one man—the nation of Zaun. A cause for the children of the Undercity. For its people.”

Nyra’s heart skipped a beat. She said nothing, watching him intently.

Silco chuckled softly, a bitter sound. “One of the brothers, the eldest, had a daughter. A child. Mute. Her death weakened him, dragged him into despair so deep that neither of us could pull him out. He left the cause for revenge.”

Nyra’s throat tightened as puzzle pieces clicked into place. Grudge and Melodie. Her hand tightened around her jacket.

Silco noticed. “You’re sharp,” he said, his voice tinged with something like approval. “Yes, Grudge. Your adoptive father. The second brother…” He chuckled again, a dry, humorless sound. “A man with a heart of gold, with fire in his belly. But even fire can be extinguished when faced with the weight of what’s necessary. He left because of cowardice.”

Nyra’s stomach twisted. She didn’t need him to spell it out. “Vander,” she whispered.

Silco nodded, his gaze distant. “You knew him as a protector. A father to his own and to the Undercity. But he wasn’t always that man.” He tilted his head, his lips curling faintly. “He was the muscle fighting alongside me and Grudge, the people behind the revolution that got your mother killed.”

Nyra froze, the mention of her mother hitting her like a punch to the gut. Her breath hitched, her grip on her jacket and shoes trembling. Memories she’d buried, memories of her mother, her warm smile and sweet birdlike song, clawed their way to the surface, sharp and relentless. Nyra panted, her breath leaving her in ragged puffs.

Silco didn’t press her. He waited, letting the silence stretch until she steadied herself.

“And the third brother?” she managed, her voice hoarse.

He ran his fingers through his hair, wetting it with the filthy water. “The only one willing to pay the price for change. To do what the others wouldn’t. The one who stayed - for freedom.”

Nyra stared at him, realization dawning. “You,” she said.

He met her gaze, unflinching. “That day, I let a weak man die in these waters,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “Let him drown. And in doing so, I was reborn. Untethered to hesitation, fear. You are drowning too, child. Drowning in the same way we did.”

Nyra’s breath caught. She didn’t dare question him. She knew that he was right.

Silco dipped his hand back into the water, running it over his face and hair again, as if trying to wash away the memories. “I hated them for leaving,” he said quietly. “But I grew to respect them. I would never harm them—not willingly. But for the cause? I would do whatever was necessary.”

He stepped closer to her then, his wet hand resting gently on her shoulder. The chill seeped through her jacket.

“Are you willing to do the same?” he asked, his voice low and deliberate. “To protect and fight for those you care about? To carve out a new future for the Lanes?”

Nyra stared at him, her heart pounding. She felt as though the weight of the entire Undercity rested on her answer.

She took a deep breath. “Yes.”

Silco’s gaze didn’t waver. “Do you trust me?”

Her voice wavered, but she nodded. “I trust you.”

He squeezed her shoulder gently. “Then it’s time to let the scared little girl die, Spark. And let the one who will lead Zaun in my stead rise.”

Nyra inhaled sharply, steadying herself as her fingers fumbled at the edges of her jacket. Silco’s gaze didn’t waver; he watched her with the patience of a predator, but his expression was softer, quieter than usual.

Her hand trembled as she reached into her pocket, pulling out a small, crumpled scrap of paper. The edges were worn, the ink barely legible, the childish scrawl of a murderous chicken long faded, but she didn’t need to read it to remember every word. It was the note she’d left for Grudge that night—the night she thought she could save everyone by giving herself up. The night she died. The last night she allowed herself to think of herself as brave.

She looked at Silco, her eyes searching his face for something she couldn’t name. He held out his hand, palm up, silently waiting. Slowly, she placed her hand with the note in his grasp. He didn’t open it, didn’t read it. Instead, his fingers closed over hers, his grip firm but not forceful.

“Come,” he murmured, guiding her hand toward the water.

The cold bit at her skin as her fist dipped beneath the surface. She clenched her jaw, her body stiffening instinctively, but Silco’s hand didn’t falter. Together, they submerged the crumpled note, her fingers uncurling as the paper unraveled and began to dissolve.

Nyra exhaled shakily, watching as the words blurred, the ink swirling away into the murky depths. It was as though the water itself was swallowing her past, erasing the last trace of the girl she had been.

When she finally looked up, Silco was already watching her, his expression unreadable. The intensity in his gaze made her chest tighten, but she didn’t flinch.

He gave her a single, measured nod. That was all it took. The dam broke.

A sob tore from her throat, raw and unrestrained. She lunged forward, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face against his chest. The motion startled him—his arm hovered awkwardly in the air for a moment before it slowly came down around her. His embrace was tentative, almost unfamiliar, as though he wasn’t sure if it was something he was allowed to do.

“I’m sorry,” Nyra choked out between sobs, her voice muffled. “I’m so sorry. It’s weak of me, isn’t it? To cry like this—right after saying I’d kill the weak part of myself?” Her words tumbled out in a rush, tangled and messy.

Silco sighed softly, the sound low and almost fatherly. His hand rested lightly against her back, the other still submerged in the water. “Crying doesn’t make you weak,” he said quietly. “Showing your emotions freely, letting yourself feel—it’s the greatest strength you can possess. The world doesn’t need another stone-hearted leader.”

Nyra hiccupped a laugh through her tears, pulling back just enough to look at him. “You say that, but you’ve built an empire on stone hearts.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Perhaps. But even stone breaks under enough pressure.” His expression softened, his fingers brushing a stray tear from her cheek. “And that’s what makes it unyielding, child. It remembers its breaking points.”

She sniffled, wiping at her face with the sleeve of her jacket. “You’re awfully poetic for a crime lord, you know that?”

“Don’t let it fool you.” His voice was dry, but there was a glimmer of something almost kind in his eyes.

Nyra swallowed hard, her breaths evening out. The water around them rippled faintly as she reached for his hand again, her grip stronger this time. She squeezed it, grounding herself in the cold and the connection.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Silco inclined his head, his gaze drifting back to the water. “There’s no need for thanks. You’ve already paid the price. Now it’s time to see if it was worth it.”

---

Nyra leaned against the cluttered vanity, a small smirk playing on her lips as Dandelion lounged on her bed, sipping straight from the bottle of stolen rum. The room smelled faintly of wood polish and lavender, a desperate attempt to mask the usual industrial grime that seeped in through every crack in the Undercity.

Dandelion took another swig, humming her approval as the liquor burned its way down. "Damn, Ny," she said, tilting the bottle toward her like a toast. "This is some good shit. Where’d you snag it? Thieram?”

“Who else?” Nyra shot back, her voice muffled as she rummaged through her wardrobe. “I think I gave him a heart attack sneaking behind the bar. Poor guy nearly threw the bottle at me when I grabbed it.”

Dandelion cackled, sprawled across the bed like a queen surveying her kingdom. “You’re gonna get yourself banned from the Last Drop one of these days.”

“Banned? Please.” Nyra emerged from the closet, holding up a sleek black dress with one hand and a glittery red one with the other. Silco had gifted them to her after returning from his occasional visits to Topside. “Thieram lives for my charm. Or my connection to Silco. Same thing.”

Dandelion rolled her eyes and took another sip before her expression turned serious—or as serious as Dandelion could manage with half a bottle of rum in her system. “Okay, but, uh, speaking of charm or lack thereof, are we really bringing kids to this party? Ekko? Jinx? They’re only sixteen.”

Nyra tossed the black dress onto the bed and twirled the red one in front of her with a dramatic flair. “First of all, Blue,” she said, emphasizing Powder's nickname, “can handle herself. Ekko, too. Second of all, tonight is about celebrating, not worrying. I was reborn, remember?”

Dandelion snorted. “You’re reborn, sure. But those two are gonna bicker like old married folk, and then you’ll be too busy playing babysitter to celebrate anything.”

“Ugh, you’re such a downer.” Nyra hummed thoughtfully, pulling a deep green dress from the back of her closet. She eyed Dandelion, then tossed it at her. “Here. Try this on. Maybe it’ll shut you up.”

The dress landed squarely on Dandelion’s face, and she yelped before pulling it away to inspect it. Her eyes lit up as she sat upright, holding the fabric against her chest. “Damn, Nyra. This is… wow. You’re really just giving this to me?”

Nyra shrugged, brushing imaginary lint off her shoulders. “You know I don’t wear those things. They just rot in my closet. Besides, you always end up raiding it anyway.”

“Fair.” Dandelion grinned, standing to slip into the dress. It hugged her curves perfectly, the deep green accentuating her skin. She twirled in front of the cracked mirror, letting out a delighted squeal. “You’re a saint, you know that?”

Nyra chuckled, pulling out her own outfit—a short dress with an exposed back. She slipped it on effortlessly, pairing it with her scuffed leather boots. When she turned around, Dandelion let out a long, exaggerated whistle.

“Look at you, Miss Thing,” Dandelion teased, leaning against the wall. “You’re gonna have all the ladies and gents drooling tonight.”

Nyra smirked, sauntering over to pinch Dandelion’s butt. The other girl yelped, nearly dropping the rum. “Come on,” Nyra said, grabbing her jacket. “Let’s get going. And if I happen to, say, find Sevika in the Last Drop and slink away with her.... and—oh, I don’t know—catch her attention, you better make sure Ekko and Blue don’t cause any trouble.”

Dandelion nearly doubled over with laughter. “Sevika? You? Not in a million years, babe.”

“Watch me,” Nyra shot back, smacking Dandelion lightly on the butt as she strode toward the door.

---

Nyra led the group with the confidence of someone who owned the city—or at least acted like it. She walked with purpose, boots clicking against the uneven cobblestones, her dress swishing just enough to catch eyes without effort. Dandelion strutted beside her, twirling a strand of her hair and humming, while Powder and Ekko trailed behind, polar opposites in their demeanor.

Powder had her arms crossed, face set in a permanent pout of disinterest, while Ekko fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable. Nyra glanced back at them, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Relax, Little Man,” she teased, catching Ekko’s uneasy expression. “You look like you’re walking into a firing squad.”

“Feels like it,” Ekko muttered, his voice low. “You know how I feel about Silco’s turf.”

Nyra waved a dismissive hand. “We’re not here to exchange politics, just drinks and vibes. You’ll live.”

They were nearing the Last Drop, and the usual raucous din of the bar had turned into something sharper. Angrier.

A fight.

Nyra halted abruptly, her senses immediately on high alert. She shared a quick glance with Dandelion—a silent command that said: Stay here. Watch them. Before anyone could protest, she sprinted toward the bar.

---

The moment Nyra burst through the doors, chaos greeted her. Tables and chairs were overturned, bodies slammed against each other in an uncoordinated mess of fists and fury. Her sharp gaze swept the room. Behind the bar, Thieram was barely holding his own against a man twice his size. On the far side, a teenage boy—probably no older than Ekko—was being tossed around like a ragdoll as he struggled to slip through the brawl unnoticed.

Nyra's mind whirred as she tried to figure out how to both get the boy out and find out what the brawl was about. She made her decision and pushed through the melee, her focus on the boy. One thing at a time. She dodged a wayward fist, shoved past a pair of brawlers, and nearly reached him—

A solid force slammed into her side, knocking her off balance. She hit the ground hard, her breath leaving her in a sharp gasp. She looked up, dazed, and met the cold grin of a burly man who was twice her size.

He wasn’t just some bar regular caught up in the chaos. Nyra took in his features and recognized the insignia on his sleeve. Them. The opposition. Power-hungry thugs Silco had beaten back when he was still securing his hold on the Lanes. She thought they’d vanished and cut their losses. Clearly, she’d thought wrong.

The man didn’t wait for her to recover. He swung a massive fist, and Nyra rolled just in time, the strike missing her by inches. Scrambling to her feet, she inhaled sharply, electricity crackling faintly along her legs as her reactor hummed to life.

Nyra dodged another strike, quick on her feet, electricity buzzing faintly in her veins as the reactor amped up the charge. But he was fast too—faster than he looked. Each swing came closer, forcing her to weave and dart like her life depended on it.

Because it did.

Her confidence faltered. He landed a brutal punch to her jaw, sending her stumbling. Pain flared sharp and hot, and her balance wavered. Before she could recover, he grabbed her braid and yanked, forcing her forward.

The rained punches on her ribcage, his meaty fists slamming into her torso over and over again.

Nyra’s mind splintered under the assault. She felt distant, like she was watching herself from somewhere far away. Crusher’s gruff voice echoed in her mind: “You think sparring’s a fight? A real fight won’t wait for you to play hero.”

Her heart pounded against her ribs. This isn’t training. This isn’t Dandy taking it easy on me. The realization slammed into her, cold and merciless.

She was outmatched.

She wasn’t ready.

Her flailing fists connected with nothing but air, and the man’s sadistic chuckle grated against her fraying nerves. “Killing Silco’s little Spark,” he sneered, his voice low and taunting, “would make us legends down here.”

His words jolted her back. Adrenaline spiked through her veins, and her fear sharpened into focus. Think, Nyra.

Her teeth sank into his forearm. The man roared in pain, his grip loosening just enough for her to shove him back. His retaliation came fast—a stinging slap that snapped her head to the side—but she didn’t falter this time.

Electricity surged in her veins, fierce and ready. Nyra slammed her hands against his torso and unleashed it all. The blast sent him flying, his body colliding with the wall in a heavy, lifeless heap.

Nyra staggered, her legs feeling like lead as she pushed through the lingering haze of pain from the earlier assault. Her vision swam for a moment, but she forced herself to focus. The teenage boy she’d spotted earlier was still struggling, his wide, terrified eyes now locked on her. She followed his gaze and realized what had captured his attention—the charred scorch mark on the wall where the meaty thug had landed after her blast.

“Move!” she barked, her voice hoarse and sharp.

Nyra cursed under her breath and stumbled forward to clear a path for him-

And then she saw her.

Sevika stood near the entrance, her towering frame filling the space. She shrugged her poncho off her shoulder, revealing the gleaming metal of her mechanical arm. Nyra’s breath hitched as Sevika loaded two shimmer cartridges into the arm, her movements precise, almost methodical. The familiar hiss of the injection made Nyra’s stomach twist with relief.

Then Sevika moved.

It was like watching a hurricane rip through a town. The thugs that had swarmed Silco’s men barely had time to react before they were torn apart, one by one. A metallic blade extended from Sevika’s arm with a sharp hiss, and she swung it in a lethal arc, cutting down anyone foolish enough to stand in her way.

Despite herself, Nyra couldn’t tear her gaze away. Even through the fog of exhaustion and pain, there was something mesmerizing about Sevika’s brutal efficiency. She didn’t fight like Nyra did—darting and weaving, relying on speed and agility. Sevika commanded the battlefield, a force of nature so overwhelming that anyone who faced her might as well have been a pebble in a storm.

Nyra’s moment of awe was cut short as another thug lunged at her, snapping her back to reality. She ducked, narrowly avoiding a swing aimed at her head, and stumbled backward. The blow to her skull earlier had left her off-kilter, and she barely managed to dodge the follow-up punch. She tried to retaliate, but her movements were sluggish, her limbs heavy.

Not good. Not good. Her mind raced as she wove and dodged, every stumble making her feel more vulnerable. She caught a glimpse of Sevika through the chaos, her blade arcing again, cutting down another foe.

Nyra’s attacker raised his fist, ready to land a blow on her head that would’ve knocked her unconscious—or worse. But before it could connect, a metal hand shot out of nowhere and wrapped around the man’s neck.

Sevika.

The thug barely had time to register what was happening before Sevika lifted him effortlessly and flung him like a ragdoll across the room. He slammed into the wall with a sickening thud and crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

Nyra stood there, panting and bloodied, staring up at Sevika. There was no mistaking the fury radiating from the woman. Sevika looked murderous, her shimmer-fueled eyes glowing brighter as they bore into Nyra. For a moment, Nyra forgot how to breathe.

The bar quieted as the remaining goons scrambled for the exit. Silco’s men were slowly getting to their feet, groaning and dusting themselves off. The fight was over, and Sevika’s presence had made sure of that.

Nyra glanced around, trying to shake off the lingering adrenaline, when she heard cautious footsteps behind her. She turned her head just in time to see Dandelion, Powder, and Ekko peek into the bar. Powder’s wide eyes took in the destruction with an almost.. crazed awe, something that Nyra planned on talking with her about, while Ekko’s expression was blank.

Dandelion, ever the cool head, scanned the room before her gaze landed on Nyra. “You look like hell,” she said, her tone light. Her eyes however were betraying her concern.

Nyra let out a shaky breath and wiped more blood from her face. “You should see the other guys,” she muttered, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably.

She could feel Sevika's presence next to her, quietly seething.

“Thanks,” Nyra muttered, her tone sulky as she glanced at Sevika. The word tasted like defeat, and she hated it. She started to turn away, setting her sights on Dandelion, Ekko, and Powder by the door. But as she took her first step, her head swam, and the world tilted dangerously to the left. She swayed, her hand instinctively pressing against the side of her head.

Before she could even process what was happening, a strong arm wrapped around her waist. Sevika’s right arm held her steady.

Nyra blinked up at her, heat rising to her cheeks—not from embarrassment, of course. Just residual adrenaline.

“I’m fine,” she said, trying to wave her off, slowly shimmying out from beneath Sevika's iron grip. “It’s just a little dizzy spell. I’ll chug some water, maybe a shot or two, and I’ll be—hey!”

Sevika didn’t so much as blink. Her hold tightened just enough to keep Nyra upright. Powder, standing a few steps away, looked on with wide eyes. She had finally taken in Nyra's state - the blood running over her face and the way her breathing was labored. For all the bratty nonchalance Powder usually exuded, the fear creeping into her expression was undeniable, the scared little Powder peeking through. Nyra’s heart clenched at the sight.

“Blue,” Nyra said softly, trying to break free from Sevika’s iron grip. “I’m fine, see? Just let me—”

Before she could finish her sentence, Sevika hoisted her clean off the ground. Nyra yelped, flailing in Sevika’s arms like a cat that had just been plucked out of a sunbeam. “Let me down!” she snapped, slapping Sevika’s shoulder with as much force as she could muster. “I need to check on Powder, you absolute—”

Sevika ignored her entirely. With an almost casual strength, she turned on her heel and strode toward the stairs, her boots thudding against the floorboards. Nyra’s protests grew louder, more indignant, but Sevika might as well have been carrying a particularly noisy sack of potatoes.

---

The office door loomed closer. “Sevika, I’m serious, put me down! Silco’s gonna have your head if you just—”

Sevika didn’t break stride. Instead, she kicked the door open with enough force to make it rattle on its hinges. Nyra flinched as the sound echoed through the office, but her annoyance was short-lived as Sevika shifted her grip. Nyra let out a frustrated huff as Sevika kicked the door shut behind her. “Unbelievable,” Nyra muttered, crossing her arms as best she could while still being held like a particularly uncooperative toddler.

Sevika strode towards the desk while holding Nyra securely with her right arm, and used her left—the mechanical one—to swipe the entire contents of Silco’s desk onto the floor. Documents, pens, his golden ashtray and various other items clattered and scattered, and Nyra winced.

“You’re dead,” she said flatly. “He’s going to murder you.”

Sevika didn’t bother looking at her. “He’ll get over it.”

Nyra mumbled out an annoyed little "stubborn mule" and tried her best to evaporate Sevika with her gaze alone.

Sevika ignored the comment and set Nyra down on the edge of the now-empty desk. “Stay,” Sevika ordered gruffly, like she was talking to an unruly dog. Nyra glared at her but didn’t move, mostly because her head was still spinning.

The woman strode over to one of Silco’s cabinets, muttering under her breath as she rummaged through its meticulously organized contents. “Where the hell does he keep his supplies?” she growled, tossing aside a box of cigarillos and an ornate paperweight. “You’d think with all his paranoia, he’d—ah, finally.”

Sevika emerged with a roll of gauze, some cotton and a glass bottle of what Nyra could only assume was whiskey. “Wait, is that—” Nyra started, but Sevika cut her off with a glare that could’ve silenced a thunderstorm.

Sevika grabbed a chair, sitting on it with the broad-shouldered ease that made the furniture look small beneath her. She spread her legs, propped her elbows on her knees, and bit down on the cork of the bottle. With a sharp flick of her head, she pulled it free and spat it onto the floor, pouring the amber liquid onto a wad of cotton.

Nyra raised an eyebrow. “You do know that’s not rubbing alcohol, right?”

Sevika’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “It’ll work.”

Nyra sighed, leaning back slightly as Sevika closed the distance between them, the soaked cotton in hand. “If I lose a patch of hair because of this, you’re buying me a wig,” she muttered, her voice scathing.

“Sit still,” Sevika said, her tone brooking no argument.

Sevika pressed the alcohol-soaked cotton against the cut on Nyra’s cheek. Nyra winced, her head jerking back instinctively.

“Could you not jab it in like you’re trying to dig a grave on my face?” Nyra hissed, glaring at her. “Gentler hands, Sevika. Ever heard of bedside manner? Or is that too much for an ogre like you?”

Sevika’s jaw tightened, the muscles along her face pulling taut. She didn’t respond, though her mechanical fingers creaked slightly as if gripping something invisible to keep from snapping.

Nyra, of course, didn’t notice—or didn’t care. She continued, words spilling out of her like water breaking through a dam. “This is unnecessary, by the way. I’m fine. Really, I was fine before you went full gorilla mode and kidnapped me. You didn’t need to do all this. You’re not my babysitter.”

Her eyes flicked forward at Sevika’s face between words. “Are you done yet? Because my friends are probably wondering where I—ow, Sevika, seriously! What’s your damage?!”

Sevika’s grip on the cotton faltered for a moment, her hand curling into a fist at her side. She kept her gaze steady on the cut, refusing to look Nyra in the eye. Her silence stretched thinner by the second, a taut line threatening to snap.

“You know,” Nyra continued, leaning back slightly, her tone intentionally teasing and nasty, meant to further aggravate Sevika. “For someone who’s not even on guard duty, you’re really going above and beyond. It’s sweet. Weird, but sweet. Maybe next time I’ll—”

The bottle slammed against the table, loud enough to make Nyra flinch and fall silent. Sevika’s hand remained on it, her knuckles white, her jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might shatter.

“Shut up.”

Nyra blinked, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

Sevika’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. “What were you thinking?”

The air in the room shifted, the weight of her words pressing down on Nyra’s chest. Nyra frowned, crossing her arms defensively. “It’s none of your business,” she said sharply. “I just wanted to help.”

Sevika let out a bitter laugh, standing abruptly. She loomed over Nyra like a storm cloud about to burst. “Help? You don’t even know how to fight.”

Nyra bristled, her fingers curling into fists. “I was handling it,” she snapped, her voice rising.

Sevika jabbed a finger against Nyra’s chest, right where the faint hum of her reactor nestled beneath her dress. “Without that little thing,” Sevika said, her voice sharp enough to cut, “you’d be dead. You hear me? Dead.”

Nyra froze, her anger simmering beneath the surface. “I know my limits,” she said through gritted teeth. “I know my body. I wasn’t going to overdo it. It wasn’t like—”

Sevika interrupted her, her tone scathing. “Wasn’t like what? Last time? When you used so much of your charge you could barely stay conscious?” She leaned in, her glare like steel. “How much was left in it this time, huh? How close were you to shutting down?”

“I know what I’m doing!” Nyra shot back, her voice shaking with anger.

“Do you?” Sevika snarled, straightening up. “Because that was a life-or-death situation, Spark. And you don’t even get it, do you? It’s my job to make sure you’re not a corpse in some alleyway, to make sure you’re alive.”

Nyra threw her hands up, her voice rising even louder. “I don’t get you! You’re so damn stubborn and confusing! One minute, you’re dragging me off like some deranged hero, and the next, you’re acting like—” She gestured wildly. “Like this!”

Sevika turned, pacing like a caged animal. “Fun’s over,” she said, her voice cold and clipped. “I’m talking to Silco. This arrangement clearly hasn’t taught you patience or restraint. You’re just as reckless as Jinx. I knew this was a waste of time.”

Nyra’s breath caught at that. Her face twisted in anger, and she jabbed her finger into Sevika’s chest. “Go ahead,” she said, her voice cold as ice. “Do it. See if I care.”

Sevika stopped and stood in front of Nyra, a muslce in her jaw ticking like the hands of a clock.

Nyra’s finger remained pressed against Sevika’s chest, her eyes blazing with fury. “Go on,” she spat. “Do it. Tell Silco. What’s the matter? Second thoughts?”

Sevika’s jaw twitched, her breathing heavy and controlled, though the fire in her eyes betrayed the storm brewing within.

Nyra smirked, venom dripping from her words. “Or maybe you’re sticking around because you like my company. Is that it? Or are you just looking for another excuse to waste my time? Oh, or maybe, just maybe, you are AFRAID of admitting that you were in the wrong?!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sevika growled, her voice low and dangerous.

For a moment, the air between them seemed to crackle. The tension, sharp and biting, snapped all at once as they lunged at each other. Their lips crashed together in a kiss that was all teeth, lips, and ragged puffs of breath.

Sevika’s right hand found Nyra’s neck, her grip firm as she pulled her closer, tilting Nyra’s head to deepen the kiss. Nyra let out a strangled groan, furrowing her eyebrows and pressing herself impossibly close to Sevika. The edge of Sevika’s metal arm thudded against the desk next to Nyra’s leg as she leaned into her, the bottle of whisky toppling over the edge of the table and landing on the floor with a dull thunk. Sevika pressed herself against Nyra until neither could feel where one began and the other ended.

Nyra bit Sevika’s lower lip, the metallic taste of blood causing heat to roll down her spine and pool in her belly. Sevika growled low in her throat, pulling back just enough to glare at her, the heat in her gaze scorching. Without missing a beat, she dragged Nyra back in, her lips crashing against hers with renewed force.

Her teeth found Nyra’s lower lip, biting with the same ferocity Nyra had shown moments ago. Nyra gasped into the kiss, a sharp sound that melted into a groan as Sevika’s right hand slipped lower, pushing her thighs apart and nestling her hips between them.

The desk creaked beneath them as Nyra’s fingers dug into Sevika’s shoulders, tugging at the fabric of her shirt in a desperate attempt to remove it. Sevika chuckled darkly against her lips, breaking the kiss just long enough to let the sound reverberate between them.

“Impatient, are we?” Sevika muttered, her voice a dangerous purr.

Before Nyra could respond, Sevika grabbed her wrists with her left hand, the mechanical fingers cold as they wrapped around her. With a swift motion, Sevika slammed Nyra’s hands down against her lap between their bodies, holding them firmly in place despite Nyra’s protests and struggles.

“I told you,” Sevika said lowly, her lips brushing against Nyra’s ear as she spoke. “I don’t do sappy shit.”

With that, she trailed her lips down Nyra’s neck, her teeth grazing the delicate skin. Each nip and bite was deliberate, leaving tiny sparks of pain and pleasure in their wake. She followed the line of Nyra’s deep golden scar, her mouth tracing the glowing path with surprising reverence that had Nyra's brain shortcircuiting.

Nyra’s breath hitched, her protests melting into soft, involuntary sounds of surrender. Her eyes fluttered shut, her head tipping back as Sevika continued her assault on her senses.

Sevika’s right hand slid over Nyra’s bare spine, her fingernails trailing roughly enough to leave red marks in their wake. Each scratch sent shivers rippling through Nyra’s body, her thighs twitching in the desperate need to snap together so she could ease the pressure building between them. Sevika's fingers paused at the smooth, cool surface of the reactor’s backplate, her touch featherlight as if testing how fragile it was. Then she dipped lower, her hand skimming along the line of Nyra’s tailbone, where the backless dress began again.

Her fingers curled into the fabric there, bunching it tightly in her grip, with Nyra's eyes snagging on the ripple of tightly corded muscle. With a sudden pull, Sevika yanked it upward, her mechanical arm releasing Nyra’s wrists only to wrap around her waist, pressing her against Sevika's chest, and lifting her effortlessly. Nyra’s breath hitched as her legs dangled for a brief moment before Sevika set her down on the desk’s cool, hard surface, baring her thighs and ass to the chill air of the office. The cold bit at her exposed skin, sending goosebumps racing across her body.

Before Nyra could gather a retort—witty, sassy, or anything in between—Sevika’s lips found hers again. The kiss was feral and consuming, their tongues tangling in a way that left Nyra breathless. The faint taste of cigarillos clung to Sevika’s tongue, sweet and smoky, making Nyra’s head swim.

Sevika’s right hand slid back up Nyra’s spine, this time with purpose. She found the single string holding the dress at the nape of Nyra’s neck and tugged it loose, letting the fabric fall in a soft, helpless cascade around Nyra’s hips. The dress pooled there, leaving her topless and exposed to Sevika’s hungry gaze. Her eyes ran over Nyra's exposed torso, her eyes snagging on the soft peaks of her breasts, her collarbones, and the elegant slope of her shoulders as she tried to drag in ragged breaths.

Sevika’s hand moved lower, finding its place on Nyra’s backside. Her grip was firm, unapologetically rough, fingers kneading the exposed skin and leaving their marks, her hands later following their feverish exploration and skimming over Nyra’s thighs with a maddening, deliberate slowness. Nyra shivered as Sevika’s lips broke away from hers, only to return to her neck. She sucked hard, leaving dark, blooming hickeys in her wake, her teeth grazing skin just enough to make Nyra arch into her.

Her mouth traced the golden scars marking Nyra’s body, the shimmering lines leading her toward the reactor embedded in Nyra’s chest. When her lips lingered just above the hex crystal, the shimmer concoction glowing in the space between them, Sevika drew back slightly.

Her gaze was molten, smoldering with a hunger that made Nyra’s cheeks flush beet red. The weight of Sevika’s scrutiny was almost unbearable, and Nyra’s hands shot up, covering the reactor as if trying to shield it—and herself—from view.

“What?” Nyra snapped, her voice shaky with embarrassment. “Think I’m a freak now?”

For a second, Sevika didn’t answer, and then a dark chuckle rumbled from her chest, the quiet sound filling the room. Then she flexed her mechanical fingers in a slow, deliberate motion, her smirk sharp as a blade.

“Do you think I’m a freak?” Sevika asked, her voice low and cutting.

Nyra’s face scrunched in anger. “Of course not!”

“Then shut the fuck up,” Sevika growled, and before Nyra could reply, Sevika’s lips were on her again. This time, she rained hot, wet kisses and sharp bites around the glowing scars encircling the reactor, her tongue tracing the golden lines like they were trails meant to be followed.

Nyra’s protests dissolved into breathy gasps as Sevika’s mouth pressed closer to the reactor itself, her tongue lewdly slipping out to lap at the junction where metal met flesh. Her tongue trailed upwards towards Nyra's hardened nipple, her plump lips wrapping around it and tugging, teeth gently nipping at the sensitive flesh. Sevika’s hand slid back to Nyra’s hip, her grip bruising, holding her in place as if daring her to move, to defy her.

But Nyra didn’t move—couldn’t. Each flick of Sevika's tongue and each featherlight touch of her fingertips made Nyra melt, heat and desire coiling deep in her belly. She could hardly believe the woman she had pined for all these years wanted her too—and even more astonishing was how much better it felt than she had ever imagined.

Sevika’s lips trailed lower, slow and deliberate, as if mapping Nyra’s body by memory alone. She followed the golden scars that shimmered along Nyra’s ribcage, her tongue tracing the edges like they were some treasure trail meant only for her, her teeth nipping and leaving small divots in the skin as if marking her. Nyra’s breath hitched when Sevika’s tongue found a scar that curved downward, leading toward the soft pool of fabric around her hips.

Sevika paused, tutting quietly, her gaze flicking to the offending dress that clung stubbornly to Nyra’s form. With a raised brow and a smirk that was painfully smug, Sevika’s right hand pressed against Nyra’s shoulder, guiding her to lay flat on the desk. The cool surface made Nyra shiver as Sevika’s fingers curled around her hips, lifting her with ease.

“Really gotta work on your critical thinking,” Sevika murmured, her voice rough and teasing as she tugged the dress down and off with a smooth pull. Nyra yelped at the motion, her thighs instinctively squeezing together. Sevika chuckled low in her throat, her lips curling in satisfaction as she set the discarded fabric aside.

She pried open Nyra's thighs and a single finger trailed over the center of Nyra’s underwear, featherlight but enough to make her gasp. “Sensitive,” Sevika muttered, amused, that damn smirk still on her face. Nyra’s face burned as Sevika’s hands—one warm, one cold—skimmed over her thighs, her right hand rough and calloused while the left one cold enough to make Nyra shiver.

“Sevika,” Nyra groaned, her voice pitching in both frustration and desire. Her hands reached out, tangling in Sevika’s hair, trying to pull her closer to where she needed her most.

But Sevika tutted again, catching Nyra’s wrists with her metal hand and pinning them firmly against her belly. “Patience, pet,” Sevika drawled, the faintest edge of sadistic mockery laced in her tone. “Didn’t our arrangement teach you that?”

Nyra’s retort died in her throat as Sevika’s tongue ran along the center of her underwear, her touch light but lighting Nyra's nerves on fire. Nyra’s eyes rolled back, her hips bucking instinctively at the contact, but Sevika held her steady, her metal arm pushing on her belly and hips.

“Now, that’s more like it,” Sevika murmured, her breath hot against Nyra’s skin. Her finger hooked under the seam, dragging it down slightly, enough to feel the damp fabric. Sevika hissed, a sharp intake of breath that had Nyra’s pulse racing.

“Shit. You're already this wet?” she asked, lifting her gaze to meet Nyra’s. Her voice was full of teasing, but her eyes burned with something primal.

Nyra squirmed under her gaze, her breath coming in short gasps. “Sev..."

A slow, predatory smile spread across Sevika’s face. She leaned in close, her lips brushing Nyra’s ear as she whispered, “I wonder… if I leave my own scars on your skin… will they turn golden too?”

Nyra shivered, her chest rising and falling as she stared up at Sevika, the promise of her words causing another wave of heat to flood her core.

“Please,” Nyra managed to pant, her voice desperate.

Sevika raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching. “What do you want, Spark?”

Nyra squirmed under her gaze, refusing to speak for a while, her breath coming in short gasps.

“Touch me,” she finally ground out, barely above a whisper.

That smug and confident smirk spread across Sevika’s face. “Good girl,” she said, her voice low.

With that, she slid Nyra’s panties to the side, her right hand keeping Nyra's thighs parted as her tongue finally dipped between her folds. Nyra’s world tilted on its axis, her hands straining against Sevika’s grip.

Sevika began her slow, deliberate torment, her tongue moving with agonizingly slow as she lapped at Nyra’s lips, savoring her taste. Each flick of her tongue was unhurried, calculated, coating Sevika’s mouth in Nyra's wetness. She swirled her tongue around Nyra’s sensitive bud, her gray eyes darkened with amusement as she drank in every desperate reaction.

Nyra strained against the grip Sevika held on her wrists, her body writhing in a futile attempt to guide Sevika’s tongue where she craved it most. Sevika’s hold tightened, the pressure on Nyra’s wrists bordering on painful. With a deliberate slowness, Sevika withdrew her tongue entirely, her lips curling into a smirk at the sound of Nyra’s broken protest.

Nyra’s breath hitched, her wide eyes pleading, but Sevika wasn’t swayed. Instead, her right hand shot out, her fingers pinching Nyra’s nipple with just enough force to make her gasp. Leaning in close, her voice low and teasing, Sevika murmured, “Are you going to keep disobeying me? Or are you ready to be a good girl and stop moving?”

Nyra’s resolve crumbled under Sevika’s gaze, her voice trembling as she answered, “I’ll obey. I won’t move anymore.”

Sevika chuckled, the sound menacing, her smirk growing as she released Nyra’s nipple and returned her focus. “Good,” she purred, blowing some cold air on Nyra's bare core, her tongue flicking out again and continuing its torment.

The louder Nyra’s noises grew, the bolder Sevika became. With a rough, unrelenting motion, she shoved a finger inside Nyra, stretching her tight heat in a way that had Nyra drawing a gasp so sharp it made her eyes roll back. Sevika’s gaze stayed locked on her, studying every twitch, every quiver, every gasp—learning exactly what made Nyra tick. She skillfully blended pleasure with pain, wringing out even the tiniest noises from Nyra as if it was a competition.

Without warning, Sevika added another finger, the stretch drawing a choked cry from Nyra. Sevika used her fingers to slowly stretch Nyra's heat, growing slick with her wetness. The sounds of Nyra’s broken pleas filled the room, her voice hurried and desperate, her body trembling on the brink.

"Please Sev, please... Fuck, please- Sevika please!"

Sevika’s low, dark chuckle reverberated against Nyra’s skin as she raised a teasing eyebrow, her lips curling into a sinful smirk, her voice husky with desire.

"I told you to use your words, pet."

Nyra mewled, trembling from the amount of restraint it took her not to move as per Sevika's orders.

"Let me... please- Please let me cum."

Sevika's smirk widened, her grip on Nyra's wrists loosening as her left hand shot out to flick Nyra's nipple, pinching it and twisting the sensitive bud between her fingers. She watched Nyra's face as she curled the fingers which were still inside of her heat, pressing into the spot that drew the most ragged pants and whimpers.

Sevika didn’t stop there—her tongue dragged slowly, deliberately, over Nyra’s most sensitive spot, the combined sensations pushing her past the edge. Nyra’s body arched as her release crashed into her, her cries reverberating in the air as Sevika smirked against her, utterly satisfied. Nyra gripped Sevika’s forearm, her nails digging into the metal as her body shook with release.

When the waves subsided, Nyra lay back on the desk, her chest heaving, her reactor glowing faintly with residual energy.

Sevika straightened, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her smirk firmly in place.

Nyra’s breath came in shallow pants as she lay sprawled on the desk, her limbs heavy and mind pleasantly foggy. She blinked up at Sevika, her eyes hooded. The older woman’s gaze was sharp, even predatory, as she lifted her fingers and held them in front of Nyra’s face.

“Open,” Sevika ordered, her voice low and commanding.

Nyra blinked, her brain taking a sluggish second to catch up. “What?” she asked, her voice rasping.

Sevika’s eyebrow arched, unimpressed. “Suck.”

It was like a switch flipped in Nyra’s brain, and she suddenly sat up straighter, her lips parting in disbelief. “You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Sevika countered, her tone dry but firm.

Nyra huffed, narrowing her eyes. Then, in the brattiest manner she could muster, she made her way to the edge of the table, wrapping her lips around Sevika’s fingers and sucking on them slowly, deliberately, maintaining eye contact the whole time. She cleaned Sevika’s fingers thoroughly, her cheeks flushing at the intimate gesture but refusing to let the older woman have the upper hand.

Nyra licked her lips, a teasing smirk tugging at them.

Sevika hummed, a sound that sent shivers down Nyra’s spine, and withdrew her hand with a smirk. Before Nyra could say anything sassy, she glanced down at Sevika’s pants. A playful grin spread across her face as she scrambled off the desk, her legs still a little wobbly.

“My turn,” Nyra announced, determination in her voice as she dropped to her knees.

But before she could settle herself, Sevika’s hand shot out, catching her arm. She tugged Nyra back up effortlessly, placing her firmly on the desk again.

“Not happening, little thing” Sevika said, her tone brooking no argument.

Nyra furrowed her brows, glaring up at her. “What do you mean, not happening? I’m perfectly capable of—”

“You probably have a concussion,” Sevika interrupted, crossing her arms. “We’ll postpone my pleasure for next time.”

Nyra groaned loudly, throwing her head back in frustration. “I’m fine! I can definitely—”

“No,” Sevika said, her grip tightening on Nyra’s arm to stop her from sliding off the desk again.

Nyra glared at her, crossing her arms like a petulant child.

“You never let me do anything nice for you. Can’t you just—”

“If you want to do something nice,” Sevika interrupted, raising a brow, “stop being such a pain in my ass.”

Nyra’s mouth fell open in mock offense. “Excuse me, I am delightful!”

Sevika just gave her a flat look.

“Fine,” Nyra grumbled, leaning forward to kiss her with a pout. Sevika accepted the kiss, pulling away with a faint shake of her head.

“You’re a sappy little shit,” Sevika muttered.

“Yeah, yeah,” Nyra replied, rolling her eyes as she reached for her dress.

Before she could grab it, Sevika bent down and picked it up herself. With a deftness that surprised Nyra, Sevika fixed her underwear back into place, the touch surprisingly gentle. Then, without a word, Sevika guided her to stand, her metal arm steadying Nyra as a wave of dizziness hit her.

“Hold onto my shoulders,” Sevika instructed as she knelt in front of her.

Nyra huffed but complied, gripping Sevika’s shoulders as she balanced on unsteady legs. Sevika slipped the dress back over her feet, sliding it up her legs and tying the strap behind her neck with quick, precise movements.

Nyra whistled, a teasing grin spreading across her face. “Didn’t know you could be so caring, big bad Sevika.”

Sevika shot her a glare. “Can it.”

Nyra snickered, wobbling slightly as she adjusted her footing. Sevika steadied her with an arm around her waist, guiding her toward the office door. As they descended the stairs, Nyra glanced up at her, her expression shifting as a realization hit her.

“Wait… there will be a next time?”

Sevika smirked, the corner of her mouth twitching upward as she tightened her grip to keep Nyra steady.

“Guess you’ll have to wait and see,” she said, her tone infuriatingly smug.

Nyra groaned but couldn’t hide the grin spreading across her face as Sevika helped her down the stairs.

---

Nyra’s footsteps echoed faintly against the wooden stairs, muffled by the rising hum of chatter and the steady thrum of music from the live band below. The Last Drop had slipped back into its usual chaotic rhythm, as if the earlier bar brawl hadn’t happened at all. It was almost impressive—this collective ability to move on, the unspoken understanding that Sevika would report everything to Silco. Nyra winced at the thought, the fact that she would probably get scolded by Silco making her want to dig a hole and hide in it. That conversation was bound to be delightful.

Sevika’s arm remained snug around Nyra’s waist, steadying her with an iron grip that dared her to stumble. Nyra could almost hear the “I told you so” ready on Sevika’s lips. It made her scoff aloud, and Sevika glanced down with an arched brow, silently daring her to open her mouth and explain herself.

“Oh, it's nothing,” Nyra muttered, then leaned in closer with a sly grin. “Just thinking it’s kind of stupid to act like nothing happened upstairs when you’ve left a road map of hickeys all over me. They’re going to know, you know.”

Sevika’s lips twitched into the faintest smirk. “Let them. Or wear a scarf.”

Nyra rolled her eyes, deciding to poke the bear a bit more. “Sure, but if you’re trying to play aloof, maybe don’t keep your arm around me like some doting—”

“If you want romance or storybook love,” Sevika interrupted, her tone dry as sandpaper, “you’ve definitely got the wrong person.”

The sheer nerve of her made Nyra’s temper flare. She pinched Sevika’s arm, trying to get her point across. Sevika didn’t even flinch, her smug expression firmly in place.

As the dancing crowd parted, Nyra’s sharp eyes caught sight of Dandelion, perched at a table in the corner, nursing a cocktail. Another drink sat untouched beside her, accompanied by two half-empty cups of juice. Relief swept over Nyra, her steps quickening—at least, they tried to. Sevika’s grip tightened, slowing her down to a more controlled pace.

“Dandelion!” Nyra exclaimed, throwing herself into the seat next to her friend the moment Sevika finally let go.

Dandelion’s head shot up, her expression sharp. “Nyra, you scared the shit out of me! I thought Sevika killed you or—” Her eyes froze mid-rant, snagging on Nyra's swollen lips, trailing down her neck, then lower, catching on the blossoming hickeys scattered like confessions. Her gaze snapped to Sevika, whose lips bore similar evidence, and her entire demeanor flipped.

“Well, well, looks like no one died... but a kitty cat definitely got smothered.”

Nyra smacked Dandelion lightly across the back of her head, heat creeping up her cheeks. “Shut your big mouth.”

Sevika grunted, ensuring Nyra was seated securely before nodding her farewell and striding off without another word. Nyra watched her weave through the crowd, finally settling at the gambling table. Coins clattered onto the surface as she slammed a coin pouch down. She pulled out the cigarillo holder Nyra had bought her, lighting a cigarillo up calmly. She rapped her knuckles against the table's surface, signaling for the dealer to hand her some cards. As smoke curled around her face, her eyes flicked back to Nyra for a split second, heat and a promise shining in them, before returning to her cards.

Nyra stared for a beat longer than she meant to, her mind whirling between interest and embarrassment.

“Creep,” Dandelion teased, snapping Nyra out of her daze.

“Grow up,” Nyra retorted, shaking her head. “Where are Ekko and Blue?”

Nyra followed Dandelion’s nod toward a quieter corner of the bar, where the crowd thinned out and the music felt a touch softer. Ekko and Powder were dancing, their movements carefree and brimming with laughter. Powder was leading, her frame bursting with energy as she spun and twirled, showing Ekko a move that involved moving your arms up and down. Ekko mimicked her with an exaggerated flair, raising his hand to his forehead and making a bunny sign with two fingers. They both broke out into fits of laughter, twirling and twisting around each other, their eyes locked.

A smile crept onto Nyra’s face as she watched them, her chest tightening in a bittersweet way. Turning to Dandelion, she tilted her head for an explanation.

Dandelion sighed heavily, rolling her eyes in exaggerated annoyance. “While you were upstairs getting your brains fucked out—”

Nyra sputtered, but Dandelion raised a hand, her sass leaving no room for argument. “Don’t even try to deny it. Anyway, Blue was really worried about you.”

“I know but... Why? Do you know what happened?” Nyra asked, her voice tinged with worry.

Dandelion shrugged nonchalantly. “Beats me. Maybe she’s got some weird martyr complex or just can’t help herself. You’re her Nyra.”

Nyra opened her mouth to protest, but Dandelion’s hand shot out to press her back into the seat as she tried to stand.

“Don’t,” Dandelion ordered. “She’s fine right now. Nobody’s blaming you for anything, least of all her. You got hit pretty hard in the head. Maybe sit still for five minutes before you start heroically wobbling across the floor.”

Nyra groaned in frustration but relented, sinking back into her chair. “Fine.”

Dandelion’s lips curved into a smirk as she continued, “Anyway, Ekko had it handled. When she started… y’know…” She tapped her own temple in demonstration.

Nyra’s stomach twisted. “Hitting herself?” she asked softly.

“Yeah.” Dandelion’s tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a flicker of unease behind her eyes. “Ekko talked her down. Somehow convinced her to dance like the old days. Got her out of her head—literally.”

Nyra let out a long sigh, relief washing over her. She glanced back at the pair, memories unfurling in her mind like old photographs. She saw the pond, full of mutated fish and flowers, where the three of them used to sit during sign language lessons. Powder would tug on Ekko’s arm, insisting he learn some dance move she’d picked up, while Nyra clapped out a rhythm from the sidelines, signing encouragements like you’re getting it and move your feet more! Ekko would grin like a dork, spinning in his attempts to mimic Powder’s quick footwork, while Powder’s laugh rang clear.

The warmth of those moments curled in Nyra’s chest, bittersweet and warm.

“So,” Dandelion said, breaking the silence, “how’s your head?”

Nyra blinked herself back to the present and shook her head slightly. “I’ll be fine. Sevika patched me up.”

A wicked grin spread across Dandelion’s face. “Oh, I bet she did.”

Nyra glared at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, just that it seems Sevika patched up more than one of your body parts.” Dandelion winked.

Nyra’s face flamed, and she smacked Dandelion lightly on the back of her head. “You’re insufferable.”

Dandelion only laughed, leaning back and sipping her cocktail with a smug grin. “And yet, here we are.”

---

The sun was setting over the pond, the orange and neon hues bleeding into the water’s surface like spilled ink. Nyra sat cross-legged on the shore, the blades of half-dead grass cool and damp beneath her fingers as she twisted one idly between her thumb and forefinger. She glanced to her side, where Powder sat with her knees pulled tightly to her chest, her arms wrapping around them protectively.

Nyra watched her for a moment, her little bug's fragile state pulling at her heartstrings like a bittersweet melody. Powder’s nails were picking at the skin around her thumb, digging in with enough force to draw blood.

Nyra broke the silence with a soft chuckle, hoping to lighten the mood. “Do you remember how you and Ekko used to pretend you were Nagakabouros’ tentacles? Flopping around in the water like fish out of the harbor?”

Powder’s lips twitched upward, a weak smile breaking through. “You mean when Ekko would always fall flat on his face when he chased me out of the pond?”

“Exactly,” Nyra replied, her voice tinged with warmth. “I still say it was because you were a slippery little thing.”

Powder chuckled softly, her arms tightening around her knees as she stared out at the water. The smile faded, her hand twitching toward her thumb again.

Nyra sighed and turned her gaze back to the pond, her reflection rippling in the breeze. “Blue,” she began, her voice quiet, “I’m sorry.”

Powder glanced at her, confusion flickering across her features. Nyra pulled her jacket closer around herself, staring down at her boots. “I should’ve been there for you. In the Last Drop. I should’ve shown you that I was okay.”

Powder shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “You had to get patched up.”

Nyra’s stomach twisted with guilt. She had been upstairs with Sevika—flesh and metal tangled together—while Powder was spiraling. She placed a hand gently on Powder’s shoulder, pulling her closer. “But I wasn’t there,” she insisted, her voice cracking. “You needed me, and I wasn’t there.”

Powder sniffled, leaning against Nyra’s side. Her voice was raw, trembling. “I was terrified, Nyra. I thought I’d lost you again.” Her fingers gripped at Nyra’s sleeve. “It felt like… like I was back there. After the explosion. Helpless. Watching everything fall apart and knowing I couldn’t stop it. Knowing that I did it. A jinx.”

Nyra’s heart ached, her breath catching in her throat. She turned to Powder, wrapping her arms tightly around her small frame. “I fought my way out of the depths for a reason,” she whispered fiercely. “Fate—whatever it is—wanted me to be here, with you. By your side.” Her voice softened, becoming a promise. “And I want to be here too. I’ll never leave you again, Baby Blue. I’ll fight tooth and nail to come back, to help you, to be your sister.”

Powder’s hands clutched at Nyra’s jacket, her face buried in Nyra’s chest as soft sobs shook her shoulders. Nyra held her tightly, her chin resting on the top of Powder’s head. It struck her then: this wasn’t Jinx, hysterical and volatile, the girl who swallowed her tears in rage and chaos. This was Powder. Her Powder.

The little girl Nyra had once comforted when Mylo’s teasing cut too deep. The one she’d taught to sign, patiently showing her each movement until her fingers caught up with her spirit. The one who built gadgets with wide, excited eyes and begged Nyra to test them first.

Nyra tilted Powder’s face up gently, brushing a stray tear from her cheek. Smiling softly, she signed, “I love you.”

Powder’s lip quivered before she chuckled through her tears, signing back with shaking hands, “I love you too.”

They held each other for a long moment, the weight of unspoken words lifting. Eventually, Powder pulled away, wiping at her face with a sniffle. “You shouldn’t blame yourself, y’know,” she muttered. “For getting patched up. I’m not mad at you for… you know. Banging the ogre.”

Nyra’s jaw dropped, her eyes snapping to Powder’s mischievous grin.

“Blue!”

Powder cackled, her grin growing wider. “What? I could smell Sevika’s cigarillo stench on you from a mile away. And the hickeys? Come on, Nyra, subtlety isn’t your strong suit.”

Nyra’s cheeks flamed as she pointed a warning finger. “Never. Speak of that. Again.”

Powder laughed so hard she had to clutch her stomach, her head thrown back in delight.

Nyra huffed, her embarrassment bubbling into mischief. She dipped her fingers into the cool pond water and flicked droplets onto Powder’s face.

Powder gasped, scandalized. “You did not.”

“I absolutely did,” Nyra said, smirking. “It’s within my rights as a big sister.”

Powder scoffed dramatically before scooping water into her hand and flicking it back.

Nyra laughed, shielding her face. “Oh, it’s on now!”

Water flew back and forth between them as they dissolved into laughter, their voices ringing across the pond like echoes of a simpler time. For the first time in what felt like forever, Nyra saw her sister—the real Powder—shining through.

---

The makeshift tactical room was dimly lit, its center dominated by Ekko, who stood tall, refusing to cave despite the weight visibly pressing on his shoulders. Around him, the Firelights were gathered in a loose semicircle, their faces illuminated by the faint green glow of the lamp and small windows on the wall. The tension in the air was thick, the kind of silence that settles when everyone is waiting for the punchline of a joke that isn’t funny.

Ekko’s voice was steady as he pointed to the shimmer factory marked in red on the map. “Our next strike will be here, three nights from now. Timing is everything. If we want to hit their supply chain without casualties, we need to—”

A voice cut through his words, uneasy but firm. “How many are still missing from the trap months ago?”

The room stilled. All eyes shifted to Ekko, whose jaw tightened imperceptibly. His fingers curled into fists by his sides, and he closed his eyes for a beat longer than necessary. When he opened them, the fire in his gaze was dimmer, like coals struggling against a strong wind.

“Ten,” he said, his voice low but steady.

The person who asked slumped slightly, nodding as if the confirmation weighed even heavier than the question. Ekko’s eyes flicked toward Scar, his right-hand man, a bat vastaya whose leathery ears twitched subtly under the tension.

Scar stepped forward, his tone heavy with regret. “We found three bodies last week,” he said quietly, his voice rasping like gravel. “Discarded. Wounded. Dead. It seems that they were interrogated.”

Ekko stiffened. He closed his eyes again, inhaling deeply, his chest rising and falling with practiced calm. When he spoke, his voice was steady but soft, like steel wrapped in velvet. “We’ll give them a proper burial. And their loved ones are free to grieve as they see fit. It’s the Firelight way.”

Nods rippled through the group, murmurs of agreement softening the air. But the reprieve didn’t last.

“What about Jinx?” someone asked hesitantly, their voice slicing through the calm. “Or Spark? Do they know anything about the missing people?”

Ekko’s jaw ticked. He looked down at the floor for a moment, the silence stretching just enough to make everyone uncomfortable. Finally, he exhaled, his words carefully measured. “I believe Jinx and Spark are… better now. They are still somewhere in there.” He hesitated, his gaze lifting to meet theirs. “I believe there’s a chance to redeem them.”

A cacophony of protests erupted, voices rising in dissent.

“Redeem Jinx? Are you kidding?”
“She’s too far gone!”
“What if Spark turns on us?”

Ekko raised his hand, and the noise died down reluctantly. His voice was firm, resolute. “How many of you used to be junkies? Thieves? Drug suppliers?” His gaze swept across the room, pausing just long enough to make people shift uncomfortably. “How many of you killed for loved ones? For survival?”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling like a blanket over the crowd.

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” Ekko continued, his tone softer but no less firm. “If I can believe in you—if I can believe in myself—then I can believe in them. Redemption isn’t easy, but it’s possible. And it’s worth it.”

From the corner, a woman spoke up, her voice calm and measured. “I agree,” she said, stepping into the light just enough for her silhouette to be visible. “Patience is a virtue. Watching and waiting could be the best move we make.”

Ekko’s lips quirked into a faint smile, the heaviness in his expression momentarily lifting. “Of course, you’d say that. You’re the queen of patience.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Hummingbird.”

The woman tilted her head slightly, her presence quiet but deadly. The Firelights murmured among themselves, the energy in the room shifting as Ekko’s words and the woman’s affirmation took hold.

He took a deep breath, straightening his back. “Alright. We move forward. Three nights from now, we strike. Until then, we prepare.”

The Firelights nodded, dispersing gradually, their steps lighter than before. Ekko remained in the center of the room, his gaze lingering on the glowing map.

“Patience,” he murmured to himself, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s what keeps us alive. You taught me that with your recklessness, Vi.”

---

Silco sat at his desk, the dim glow of his green-tinted desk lamp casting long shadows across his office. The air was thick with the acrid scent of his cigarillo—one of the finer brands Nyra had thoughtfully picked out for him for Janna's day. He took a slow drag, exhaling a plume of smoke as his sharp eyes scanned the chaotic mess of papers and trinkets strewn across his desk.

His fingers brushed over the corner of an overturned ink pot, a sneer curling on his lips. Jinx or Spark, no doubt. They had a knack for chaos, and as much as he valued their... unique contributions, their inability to leave well enough alone grated on him.

A sharp knock broke his thoughts.

“Come in,” Silco said, his voice like a blade dragged across silk.

The door creaked open, and a hulking man stepped in, his presence subdued. He stood stiffly in front of the desk, eyes downcast, until Silco gestured for him to speak.

“Well?” Silco prompted, the word laced with impatience.

The man cleared his throat. “One of the bugs tattled.”

Silco’s brow arched, his fingers pausing mid-tap on the desk. “And?” he drawled, leaning back in his chair.

“There’s a spy in our ranks,” the man continued, his voice hushed as if speaking the words aloud might summon the traitor themselves. “Someone’s been feeding our secrets to the Firelights.”

Silco’s expression didn’t shift, but a glint of something cold and lethal flickered in his mismatched eyes. He raised the cigarillo to his lips, taking a long drag as the man fidgeted under his scrutiny.

“And you’re certain?” Silco asked, his voice calm, dangerously so.

The man nodded. “Yes, sir. The bug was pretty clear before... before it was squashed.”

A slow smile crept across Silco’s face, devoid of humor. He tapped the ash off the cigarillo into his gold ashtray, the faint hiss of embers the only sound in the room.

“Work quietly,” Silco said, his tone smooth. “No whispers, no suspicions. I want this rat cornered, not spooked.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring them to the old cannery,” Silco continued, his voice dropping an octave, as if the very thought pleased him. “To the doctor. I’ll attend shortly.”

The man nodded, stepping back toward the door. Silco dismissed him with a flick of his hand, his focus already shifting.

As the door closed, Silco chuckled softly to himself, a sound that didn’t so much as hint at amusement. He leaned back, allowing his chair to swivel on its axis. Turning away from the mess on his desk, he gazed through the tall, circular green window behind him. The city sprawled out below, its veins of neon light pulsing like lifeblood in the dark.

He took another drag, the ember of the cigarillo glowing brighter as he exhaled a stream of smoke that lingered like a specter in the still air.

“It’s time to exterminate some bugs,” he murmured, his voice almost wistful. His smile sharpened as he gazed out at the Undercity, the chaos and rot that he called his kingdom. For Silco, a traitor wasn’t just an inconvenience—it was an opportunity. And he relished every step of the hunt.

Chapter Text

Nyra strolled toward the workshop, hands stuffed in her jacket pockets, humming a tune she’d picked up from Ekko. Her boots echoed softly against the damp cobblestones, and for once, she felt relaxed. Just as she rounded a corner, a hand shot out, clamping over her mouth and yanking her into a dark alley.

Her scream was muffled against the rough palm, and she immediately began thrashing, her reactor sparking to life as she prepared to shock the life out of whoever had dared to grab her. But then, a familiar voice hissed in her ear.

"Nyra, it’s me."

She froze, the crackling energy in her reactor dimming as she spun around to see Dandelion. The frantic look on her friend's face made Nyra pause, clutching her chest as she let out a shaky breath.

"Stars above, Dandy, you scared me half to death!" Nyra said, her voice light but her heart still hammering. “Who’s the creep now?”

Dandelion didn’t laugh. She didn’t even crack a smile. Her wide, teary eyes darted around the alley before landing back on Nyra. The tension was contagious, wiping away Nyra’s playful grin.

“What’s wrong?” Nyra asked, her tone dropping. “What happened?”

“No time,” Dandelion whispered, her hands grabbing Nyra by the shoulders. “I need to talk to you. Now.”

Nyra blinked, taken aback. “Okay, sure, but can we maybe not do the whole alleyway ambush thing next time?”

“Nyra,” Dandelion cut her off, her voice trembling. “What do you think of Silco? Of shimmer? Of the Undercity?”

Nyra’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Answer me!” Dandelion’s grip tightened, and she gave Nyra a small shake. “Please.”

Nyra stammered, caught off guard. “I mean… Silco’s doing what he can for Zaun. Shimmer helps people who have nothing else. It’s not perfect, but it’s something. What is this about?”

Dandelion let go, stepping back and wrapping her arms around herself. She shook her head, muttering under her breath. “I couldn’t change anything.”

“Dandelion?” Nyra’s voice softened. “What are you talking about?”

“I couldn’t help you,” Dandelion whispered, her voice breaking. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she took another step back. “I couldn’t save you.”

Nyra reached out, her own heart twisting. “Save me? From what? Dandelion, you’re not making any sense.”

“This is the last time,” Dandelion said, her voice barely audible. “I’ll be gone.”

Then she turned and ran.

“Wait!” Nyra shouted, snapping out of her shock. She bolted after her, her feet pounding against the ground as she called, “Dandelion! Stop!”

But Dandelion was fast, weaving through the maze of alleyways with a desperation that Nyra couldn’t match. She turned corner after corner, her breath hitching as she lost sight of her.

“Dandelion!” Nyra called again, spinning in place as she scanned the empty streets. Only silence answered her.

Chest heaving, she slumped against a wall, her mind racing. What had just happened? Where had Dandelion gone? And what had she meant by “I couldn’t save you”?

---

Nyra walked toward the Last Drop, her steps sluggish and her mind clouded. Dandelion’s frantic words replayed in her head like a broken record. She needed answers, and Silco might have them—or at least some insight. The heavy doors loomed ahead as she neared, the muffled thrum of music vibrating through her boots.

Thieram stood behind the bar, giving her a nervous nod whens she entered, but she didn’t even acknowledge him. She just kept walking, her gaze fixed ahead. She climbed up the steps, the hallway stretched out before her, darker than usual, and she found herself in front of Silco’s door before she even realized it.

She raised her hand to knock, but the door swung open abruptly, and she stumbled back as a burly goon nearly collided with her.

“Miss Spark,” he stammered, stepping aside and bowing his head apologetically. “Sorry about that.”

Nyra waved him off without a word, stepping into the room. Silco sat at his desk, his frame taut, fingers clenched around a pen that seemed moments away from snapping in two. His frown carved deep shadows across his face, and the sharp scent of cigarillo smoke lingered faintly in the air.

“What’s got you all broody?” Nyra asked, leaning against the doorframe, trying to inject some casualness into her tone.

Silco’s gaze flicked up to her, his eyes narrowing slightly. “There’s a rat,” he said, his voice clipped and icy.

Nyra’s brows furrowed. “Who?”

He exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll tell you when we catch them. It’s... an important surprise.” The corners of his mouth twitched, but there was no humor in it.

Her stomach churned as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. Something about his expression, the way his words hung in the air, made her pulse quicken. She dropped her gaze to the floor, trying to tamp down the unease bubbling up inside her.

“What did you need, child?” His voice was sharper now, cutting through her thoughts.

Her head snapped up. For a moment, she hesitated. Should she tell him about Dandelion? About what she’d said? Her gut screamed no, every instinct telling her to tread carefully.

“I just... wanted to see how you were doing,” she said finally, her voice measured.

Silco tilted his head, studying her with an unreadable expression. “I’m fine,” he said after a pause. “And I’ll be even better when the rat is dealt with.”

The finality in his tone left no room for further conversation. Nyra pushed off the doorframe, offering a tight, forced smile. “Good to hear. Guess I’ll leave you to it.”

She turned on her heel, her departure as brisk as her farewell.

---

Nyra wandered through the streets of the Undercity, the hustle and bustle of the city barely registering as she drifted between the towering buildings. Her mind raced - she had too many questions left unanswered. She wasn’t sure where she was going, just that she needed to move. To think.

Eventually, her feet found their way to the Vi Memorial. Sevika would be waiting for her—she always was, sitting there every day after lunchtime like clockwork.

Nyra sighed, glancing up at the building. With a small grunt, she pushed herself up, using the cracks in the stone as footholds, until she found the ledge. It was a bit of a struggle, her hands slick with sweat as her heart hammered in her chest. But when she finally made it to the top, she saw Sevika there, lounging against the stone like she’d been waiting for hours, eyes half-lidded in that way that made it impossible to tell what was on her mind.

“You’re late,” Sevika remarked, raising an eyebrow but not bothering to look at her directly.

Nyra huffed, panting from her climb. “I’ve got a lot on my plate, you know.”

Sevika didn’t say anything more, just sat on the ledge and regarded her silently. Nyra took a deep breath, willing her pulse to slow, before sitting down beside her. The cold wind felt nice on her flushed skin, and for a second, everything felt…still.

Sevika didn’t press her, not a single word of inquiry. That was one of the things Nyra appreciated the most about her. Sevika had a way of sitting with the quiet, never rushing her to talk, even when her silence was loud.

With a small sigh, Nyra reached into her bag, pulling out a screwdriver. She fiddled with it between her fingers, a nervous habit she’d picked up while tinkering with Ekko and Powder years ago. She needed something to focus on. Something that wouldn’t make her mind race.

Without a word, she reached out and grabbed Sevika’s mechanical arm, her fingers lightly brushing over the metal, testing the joints. Sevika didn’t flinch, but there was the smallest shift in her posture.

“You need something done?” Sevika asked, her voice low but knowing. She knew Nyra wasn’t just fiddling. She was always like this when she was nervous—always finding something to fix, even if it wasn’t broken.

Nyra’s eyes stayed on the arm as she unscrewed one of the small panels. “Nah,” she mumbled. “Just... distracted.”

Sevika’s lips curled into a faint smile, though it wasn’t one that Nyra could quite read. “You always were a fixer.”

Nyra shrugged, pulling out a few small tools from her pocket, working on the arm with more focus than she ever gave anything else. She wasn’t looking for perfection, just something to keep her hands moving. To ground her in the moment, away from the chaos of her thoughts.

With a final twist, the screw that she was working on tightened. She tapped on Sevika’s metal wrist, letting out a huff. “Done,” she muttered, tossing the screwdriver to the side and leaning back on her hands.

Sevika, lounging beside her with a cigarillo that she had lit minutes prior in her right hand, exhaled a lazy plume of smoke. “Not bad,” she said, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Though for someone with your stamina, you get tired pretty quick.”

Nyra shot her a sharp look, picking up the screwdriver again and pointing it at her. “Keep talking, and I’ll dismantle this arm piece by piece.”

Sevika just chuckled, taking another drag. “Sure you will.”

They sat in silence for a while, the city stretching out below them in a chaotic sprawl. Nyra sighed, glancing at Sevika before looking down at the bracelet on her wrist. She twisted the beads around absentmindedly.

“What does the cause mean to you?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

Sevika took her time, tapping the ash from her cigarillo. “It’s for the people,” she said. “Simple as that.”

Nyra raised a brow. “No other reason? Nothing personal?”

Sevika looked at her, unimpressed. “You think that’s not a good enough reason?”

Nyra shrugged. “Guess it is.”

Sevika leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees, the cigarillo dangling between her fingers. “Maybe,” she added, her tone thoughtful now, “it’s also for the people I care about.”

Nyra smirked, tilting her head. “Do I make the cut?”

Sevika rolled her eyes. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Nyra grinned, leaning over to kiss Sevika’s cheek. “That’s exactly what you like about me.”

Sevika shook her head, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. 

---

Nyra sat on the battered couch in Powder’s workshop, her leg bouncing restlessly. Her boot thudded against the base of the metal dummy fashioned to look vaguely like Mylo over and over. In her hands, she clutched a tiny Claggor plushie she’d sewn for Powder a few years ago, her fingers twisting it around mindlessly. The toy didn’t ease her spiraling thoughts.

Dandelion couldn’t be the rat. Could she?

The thought slithered in, ugly and insistent, gnawing at the edges of her brain. She shook her head fiercely, dismissing it. No. Dandelion’s worked just as hard as I have. Maybe harder. She’d never betray us.

Another tap against the dummy.

Powder groaned from the workbench, swiveling her chair dramatically to face Nyra. Her goggles, smudged and slightly askew, were pushed up onto her forehead. “If you kick that dummy one more time, I’m gonna replace your foot with one of my explosives,” she said, her tone only half-joking.

Nyra blinked, startled out of her thoughts. “What?”

Powder crossed her arms, a smudge of grease across her cheek making her look younger than her 16 years. “What’s got you wound so tight? You’re fidgeting like I strapped dynamite to your leg.”

Nyra sighed, placing the Claggor plush carefully on the couch beside her. She rose and began pacing, her boots clicking against the uneven floor.

Powder stood with a sigh, peeling off her goggles and dropping them onto the workbench. She approached Nyra with a confidence that still surprised her at times. Catching Nyra mid-pace, Powder grabbed her face with both hands and tilted it down so their eyes locked.

“Spill it.”

Nyra chuckled softly, more out of habit than actual humor. “You’re acting like the big sister.”

“And you’re stalling,” Powder shot back, deadpan. “Seriously, Nyra. What’s going on?”

Nyra exhaled slowly, taking in Powder’s features. The girl had grown into a striking young woman, taller now, her frame lean and strong. Her two long braids, a style she’d adopted to mimic Nyra, reached past her hips, swaying slightly with every movement. She was dressed simply—loose pants and a tank top that showed her pale, unmarred skin.

Her face still carried softness, though there was a sharper edge to her features now. She wasn’t a child anymore. Nyra’s chest tightened. Powder was still learning to fight, to survive, to tinker—though she’d become skilled enough that Nyra didn’t have to hover anymore. But her mind…

Nyra’s heart ached as she thought of the cracks Powder carried. Losing her family twice had left wounds that no amount of training or tinkering could fully hide. But Nyra clung to hope that she could help mend those fractures, one piece at a time.

Powder’s fingers fidgeted, her hand brushing the cloud pendant Nyra had given her not long ago. She seemed to know that it was important for Nyra to take her in, to observe her for a while.

Finally, Nyra spoke. “What do you think of Silco? Of shimmer? The Lanes? The cause?”

Powder’s fingers closed around the pendant. Her eyes searched Nyra’s face before she answered. “I trust Silco,” she said, her voice steady. “Everything I do is for you. For us. For our future.”

She hesitated, as if weighing her words, but before she could continue, a voice called out from above.

“Spark!”

Both women turned. At the edge of the steep drop that led to the workshop, a man stood, looking nervous. “The boss wants you,” he said, voice carrying over the hum of the workshop. “He caught the rat.”

Nyra’s stomach flipped. Her heart somersaulted against her ribs, a chaotic mess of dread.

She turned back to Powder, her voice soft. “Will you come with me?”

Powder shook her head, taking a step back toward their joint workbench. “I’ll join later,” she said firmly. “I don’t… I don’t need to see another beaten Firelight. Or anyone else.”

Nyra nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. She leaned down and kissed Powder’s head gently. “See you later, bug.”

Powder gave her a small smile, her fingers brushing the pendant again as Nyra climbed up the cliffside to join the waiting man. 

Behind her, the workshop grew quiet, save for the faint sound of Powder tinkering once again.

---

Nyra followed the man through the winding streets of the Undercity, her fingers twisting the bracelet around her wrist. Her teeth worried at her bottom lip as she tried to focus on anything other than the dread building in her chest. The path they were taking didn’t feel right. She knew that it was supposed to lead to one of Silco’s shimmer factories, but it didn’t seem to be that way.

Where are we going? she thought, her unease deepening. She’d explored nearly every nook and cranny of the Undercity, but this route didn’t align with any she knew. The twisting alleys, the steep descents, the way the air grew colder and the lights dimmer—it all felt alien.

The man scaled a jagged cliff edge looming before them with ease, landing softly at the bottom. Nyra hesitated for a fraction of a second before following, her fingers trembling as she gripped the rock for support. She landed soundlessly beside him, the sharp chill of the air biting into her skin.

They moved through a series of tunnels that seemed forgotten by time. Old mining gauntlets lay scattered across the floor, rusted and broken, remnants of a time when these paths had purpose. Looters, it seemed, hadn’t found their way here—or hadn’t cared enough to strip the place bare. Nyra shivered as the air grew colder, her breath visible in small puffs.

She squinted into the darkness, trying to make sense of their destination, but the shadows swallowed everything ahead. Finally, they stopped in front of a heavy door.

The man knocked, the sound echoing ominously.

“Come in,” a man’s voice called from inside.

The man pushed the door open, and Nyra stepped through hesitantly.

She wasn’t prepared for what she saw.

“Dandelion?” Her voice cracked as her eyes locked onto her friend, strapped to a chair in the center of the room. Dandelion’s wide, bruised, tear-filled eyes met hers, and though her mouth was gagged, Nyra could see the panic in her face.

Nyra surged forward, but a goon grabbed her arm and yanked her back. “What the hell is this?” she demanded, her voice sharp with anger.

The room remained silent, save for Dandelion’s muffled attempts to speak.

Nyra thrashed in the goon’s grip. “Let me go! I need to talk to Silco. Now! ”

The goon hesitated for a while, sharing a look with the other men in the room, but eventually relented, shoving her toward a narrow passage that led deeper into the cavern. Nyra looked back at Dandelion, her voice softening. “I’ll get you out of this, okay? I promise.”

The look in Dandelion’s eyes broke something in Nyra, but she turned and followed the goon.

The passage opened into a room that overlooked a vast cavern. Fluorescent mushrooms dotted the cavern floor, their eerie glow casting soft, shifting light across the jagged rock walls. It was hauntingly beautiful, but Nyra barely noticed. Her attention locked on Silco.

He stood at the far end of the room, his back to her, hands clasped behind him. The faint glow of the mushrooms below shed a soft light on his silhouette.

Nyra strode toward him, her anger bubbling to the surface. “Silco,” she snapped, her voice cutting through the silence.

He didn’t turn.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, her fists clenched at her sides.

Silco didn’t turn. His silhouette against the eerie glow of the fluorescent mushrooms below remained still, save for the faint rise and fall of his shoulders. “You came quickly,” he remarked, his tone as calm as it was cold.

“Of course, I did,” Nyra snapped. “What are you doing ? Why is Dandelion tied up like that?”

He finally turned to face her, his sharp features framed by the dim cavern light. “Because,” he began, his voice steady, “she’s been feeding information to the Firelights. She’s a traitor. A mole.”

Nyra froze. The words didn’t make sense, not in any world she knew. “That—” she started, then stopped, shaking her head. “That can’t be true. Dandelion? A Firelight? That’s ridiculous.”

Silco sighed, rubbing his temples like a man tired of repeating himself. He crossed to the table at the center of the room, sinking onto its edge and gesturing to the chair across from him.

“Sit,” he instructed.

Nyra hesitated but sat, her fingers instinctively running over the carved letters on the table’s surface: S, V, G. They were old, etched deep into the wood by some past hand. Her gaze drifted upward to Silco, who now leaned forward, running a hand through his graying hair.

“As the one who will lead Zaun after me,” he began, his voice low but pointed, “you need to learn what it takes to protect the cause. You need to understand the sacrifices that must be made.”

Nyra flinched at the word sacrifices . Her voice rose as she shook her head. “Dandelion isn’t a threat. She’s not dangerous. You’ve got it wrong, Silco.”

He tilted his head, his sharp eyes narrowing. “She’s been leaking information to the Firelights. Crucial information. You’ve seen the way they’ve been hitting us. Always one step ahead, always knowing our next move. That is not a coincidence.”

Nyra’s chest tightened. She wanted to scream, to demand proof, to claw through this madness. Instead, she sat rigid, gripping the edge of the chair.

“I want to talk to her,” she said suddenly. “Alone. I’ll convince her to explain herself.”

Silco leaned back, his gaze calculating. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a silver lighter, the metal glinting faintly in the light.

Nyra’s stomach dropped.

He flicked it open, lighting one of the cigarillos she had given him months ago. The flame flared briefly, casting a flickering glow over his face.

Nyra’s eyes snagged on the bottom of the lighter. There, faint but unmistakable, was a small indent, scuffed but familiar.

Grudge’s lighter.

Her mind reeled as Ekko’s words rang in her ears: “Nyra, I don’t think Grudge left. I think he’s dead. And I think Silco’s behind it.”

The room seemed to tilt. Silco drew in a slow drag from the cigarillo, his gaze fixed on her like he was reading every thought racing through her head. He knew she recognized it.

He was doing it on purpose.

Nyra forced herself to remain calm, swallowing down the storm brewing inside her. She clenched her jaw so tightly it hurt and nodded.

“Five minutes,” Silco said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Make it quick.”

Nyra didn’t waste a second. She strode back into the room where Dandelion was tied, her voice sharp as a blade as she barked at the goons. “Leave us. Now.”

They exchanged uneasy glances, but the man who had escorted her nodded, and they filed out reluctantly.

As soon as the door shut, Nyra rushed to Dandelion and yanked the gag from her mouth.

“I’m getting you out of here,” Nyra whispered fiercely.

Dandelion shook her head, her voice hoarse. “You can’t.”

“Don’t you dare,” Nyra hissed, struggling with the ropes binding her hands. “I’m fixing this. I was—blind, okay? But I see now. I’ll get you out of here, I swear it.”

Dandelion’s gaze softened briefly before hardening again. “Nyra, listen to me. There are too many guards. You’ll burn out your reactor trying to fight them all, and then we’re both dead.”

Nyra froze, her hands trembling.

“Look at me,” Dandelion urged, her voice steady.

Nyra’s eyes met hers.

“You need to leave me. Take Blue and run—far away from Silco. Tell Ekko that I’ve been compromised. I’m ready for this, Nyra. I knew what I was risking.”

“Like hell I’m leaving you,” Nyra shot back, standing abruptly. She stared down at Dandelion for a bit, her eyes glazed over. Then, she snapped back into it, her eyes focusing on Dandelion’s face.  “I have a plan.”

Dandelion didn’t argue further, but her silence spoke volumes.

Nyra stormed out of the room, her expression unreadable. She barked to the goons, “I’m heading to Sevika to report. Don’t screw this up while I’m gone.”

They nodded, trusting her without question.

As soon as she cleared the cliffside, she bolted into the city, her legs pumping furiously. She was headed to the Last Drop. If anyone could help her turn the tide, it was Sevika.

---

The Last Drop’s heavy wooden doors swung open with a low groan, and Nyra stormed inside like a whirlwind. The familiar tang of spilled beer, cheap smoke, and too much cologne hit her nose as her eyes darted over the crowd. A few heads turned her way—some curious, most indifferent. A pool game paused mid-shot; the din of laughter and chatter hummed on.

Her gaze landed on Sevika, who sat at a table in the back, a cigarillo balanced between her fingers and a stack of coins growing dangerously tall in front of her. Two men across from her scowled as Sevika laid down her cards with a smirk, sweeping her winnings toward her with a deliberate, taunting slowness.

When Sevika’s eyes flicked up and met Nyra’s, the smirk faded. She crushed the ember of her cigarillo on the table and pushed her chair back, standing in one fluid motion. She threw the men a lazy shrug. “Keep the game warm, boys.”

Nyra didn’t bother waiting for her. The tension in her chest pulled her toward Silco’s office like a magnet. By the time Sevika caught up, Nyra was already shoving the door open and storming inside.

“Close the door,” Nyra said without looking back, pacing like a caged animal.

Sevika pushed the door shut and leaned against it, crossing her arms. Her sharp gaze followed Nyra’s frantic movements. “Alright, Spark. Spit it out. What’s got you this wound up?”

Nyra whirled to face her, her voice trembling with anger. “It’s Silco. He’s got Dandelion tied up—he thinks she’s a mole. He’s wrong, Sevika. And—” Her throat closed up for a second, but she forced the words out. “And I think he killed Grudge. I saw his lighter. Silco has it. My friend was right. He—he did it. I know it.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and tears pricked at her eyes. Sevika’s expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes shifted—a flicker of regret, of understanding.

Nyra glanced up at Sevika and froze. “You knew,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of her pounding heart.

Sevika didn’t deny it. She let out a heavy sigh, looking away. “It’s not about Silco. It’s about the cause.”

The words hit Nyra like a punch to the gut. She let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “The cause ? Are you kidding me?” Her laughter turned bitter, tears spilling down her cheeks as she shook her head. “You’re loyal to a man who killed his own brother. Who poisons and murders the people he’s supposed to protect. Who’s torturing a powerless woman. ”

Sevika’s jaw tightened. “I’m not loyal to Silco,” she growled. “I’m loyal to Zaun. To what we’re fighting for. You used to be, too.”

Nyra laughed again, hollow and broken. “Your Zaun and mine aren’t the same. Mine doesn’t sacrifice the innocent. Mine doesn’t kill the people it’s supposed to liberate. I’ve been so blind, Sevika. So desperate for a family, for—” She choked on the words, her voice dropping to a whisper. “For a father.”

Sevika said nothing.

Nyra swiped at her tears angrily. “Grudge was the only dad I ever had. And Silco took him from me. And you—” Her voice cracked, but she pressed on. “You knew. And you didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t know how,” Sevika said quietly. “I couldn’t risk your progress.”

Nyra stared at her for a long moment, then stepped closer, her voice soft. “This is the last time we see each other.”

Sevika straightened, her gaze hardening. “No, it’s not.”

Nyra gave her a sad smile. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

Before Sevika could react, Nyra’s reactor hummed to life. Electricity surged to her hands, crackling with intensity. Sevika’s eyes widened in surprise as she braced herself, but Nyra was too close, too fast. The blast hit her square in the chest, and she crumpled to the ground with a grunt, unconscious.

Nyra knelt beside her, tears slipping down her cheeks as she unclasped the bracelet from her wrist and placed it beside Sevika. She lingered for a moment, taking in Sevika’s peaceful, unguarded face.

In another life, maybe they would’ve fought for the same Zaun. Maybe they could’ve been free to fall for each other under different circumstances.

Nyra rose, wiping her tears away as she strode out of the office and through the bar. She didn’t look back as she stepped into the cool night air, her heart pounding.

She ran through the streets, her destination clear: the Vi memorial. She had to get backup.

---

Nyra sat cross-legged on the rooftop of the house, the faded drawing of Vi staring up at her like a ghost. Her notebook lay open in her lap, pages warped from years of being her only voice. She gripped her pencil tightly, scribbling furiously:

"Dandelion. Compromised. Down in the mines next to the Shimmer Factory in the lower levels. Quick."

The letters wavered as her hand trembled. She set the pencil down and stared at the drawing of Vi, the paint lines almost lost to time. Her fingers brushed softly over the features, and her chest tightened.

“Wish me luck,” she whispered, her voice cracking. A shaky breath escaped her as she placed a small pebble beside the drawing, a goodbye.

She stood abruptly, shoving the notebook into her satchel.

---

The cliff edge loomed ahead, and without hesitation, she jumped.

Her boots hit the rotor blade with a solid thud , and the structure groaned under her weight. She barely paused, rushing towards the workbench. Powder, seated on the floor surrounded by mechanical parts and half-finished grenades, jumped to her feet, startled.

“Nyra! What are you—Janna’s wings, you look like you just fought off a pack of bristlebacks.” Powder’s quip hung in the air, but Nyra didn’t bite. She wasn’t here to banter.

“Pack your stuff,” Nyra said, her voice clipped and urgent. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Powder froze, her hands halfway to a wrench. “Leaving? What’s going on?”

Nyra didn’t stop moving, snatching a satchel off the floor and stuffing it with whatever essentials she could find. But when she glanced at Powder, her frantic pace stuttered. Powder stood there, smaller somehow, her eyes wide and filled with the same fear Nyra had seen countless times before.

She crossed the room quickly, gripping Powder’s shoulders gently. “Blue, listen to me. Silco—he’s a bad man. He’s got Dandelion. He’s holding her hostage. And he killed Grudge.”

Powder’s eyes widened further, and then her expression twisted. She flinched as though struck, one hand flying to her temple. “Shut up,” she muttered, her voice thin and uneven. “Shut up, shut up, shut up .”

“Bug—what are you—”

Powder pulled away violently, shaking her head. “You’re wrong! ” she snapped, her voice shrill and trembling. “Silco’s not bad. He’s doing what’s necessary. He—he cares about me!”

“Blue…” Nyra’s voice softened, but it wavered. “He’s using you. Vander— Silco killed him, too.”

The name was a blow, and Powder staggered back, clutching her head. “Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Nyra reached for her, desperate to calm her down, but Powder lashed out. Her hand darted to her belt, and in one fluid motion, she leveled a gun at Nyra’s chest.

Nyra froze. Her breath hitched as her eyes locked onto the trembling barrel. Powder’s fingers shook on the trigger, her face wet with tears.

“Just leave!” Powder sobbed, her voice cracking. “I don’t care where you go. Just leave me alone! ”

Nyra’s heart shattered, but she stayed steady. Slowly, she raised her hands. “Blue,” she said softly, “I’m not leaving you. You’re my sister. I love you.”

Powder screamed, her voice raw and piercing. “I said go! ”

Nyra flinched but didn’t back away. She swallowed the lump in her throat, her hands still raised. “I don’t have time for this, Blue. I’ll be at the shimmer factory, close to the lower levels. I’ll be waiting for you.”

She took a slow, deliberate step back, her heart heavy as Powder’s sobs filled the workshop. Just before she turned to leave, she raised her hands and signed, “I love you.”

Powder’s tears fell faster, but she didn’t lower the gun.

Nyra didn’t wait for a response. She spun on her heel, sprinting toward the cliff face. Her hands found holds with ease, and she scaled the rock swiftly. At the top, she paused, glancing back.

Powder’s workshop was a blur below, her figure barely visible in the doorway.

“Please come,” Nyra whispered to herself before disappearing into the night.

---

The cavern was chaos. Nyra’s electricity crackled like a thunderstorm, cutting through the damp air as she tore her way back toward Dandelion. Her boots skidded on the uneven rock as she dodged a volley of bullets - she didn’t care about the shouts behind her or the blur of movement in her peripheral vision. Anyone who got in her way was met with a zap of electricity that sent them sprawling.

“Out of my way!” she snapped, a streak of lightning arcing from her fingertips and taking down another goon. She didn’t have time for finesse. Not tonight.

The room she was looking for came into view, the faint flicker of a lantern illuminating the silhouette of a figure slumped against a chair. “Dandelion,” Nyra breathed, relief washing over her.

She stumbled inside, her reactor glowing faintly as she crouched and began undoing the ropes binding her friend. Dandelion’s wide eyes snapped up to her, panic written all over her dirt-streaked face.

“Nyra! I told you not to come back here!” Dandelion hissed, her voice a frantic whisper. “We’re dead. Both of us. Do you even understand—”

“Save the lecture,” Nyra interrupted, shoving a pistol into Dandelion’s trembling hands. “I’m not leaving without you. Watch my back. I’ve got some unfinished business.”

“Unfinished—Nyra, no!” Dandelion protested, but Nyra was already halfway out the door.

---

Nyra stormed through the winding tunnels, her footsteps echoing off the damp stone walls. The faint glow of bioluminescent mushrooms cast the cavern in a dim light. She gritted her teeth, her fingers twitching as electricity arced across her hands. The air around her buzzed with the charge of her reactor.

The door slammed into the wall as she burst into the chamber, and there he was—Silco. He stood by the table, his back to her. At the sound of her entrance, he started to turn, his sharp voice just beginning to form her name.

“Sp—”

The charge hit him square in the chest, cutting him off. His body convulsed briefly before he crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Nyra stood over him, her breath heaving as the static in the air slowly dissipated. 

“Traitor,” she spat under her breath, kneeling down to drag him into the chair that sat next to the table. Her hands worked quickly, tying the ropes tightly around him.

She needed answers, or at the very least - closure.

---

When Silco groaned and blinked awake, Nyra was already standing over him, arms crossed, electricity flickering faintly along her fingers. He looked up groggily, his mismatched eyes focusing on her.

“Spark,” he rasped, shaking his head as if to clear it. Then his face settled into its usual calm, calculating mask, his gaze locking onto hers. “What is this?”

She ignored his question, leaning down to tighten the final knot. Her hands trembled, but her voice was steady, laced with venom. “You’re a liar, Silco. A traitor. You gave me hope—and then you took it away. From me. From Blue.”

Silco tilted his head, his expression unfazed despite his restrained position. “Are you finished?” he asked coolly.

Nyra’s glare intensified, the charge around her hands sparking brighter. “You don’t get to act like this is beneath you,” she snapped. “You don’t get to act like I don’t have a right to be furious. You lied to us—you lied to me! ”

Silco’s lips tightened. He exhaled sharply, his calm facade cracking slightly. “I didn’t lie,” he said, his voice rising just a fraction. “I did what I had to. For you. For Jinx. You’re my daughters, Spark. Everything I’ve done was to protect you!”

“Don’t,” Nyra snarled, stepping closer, her voice trembling with anger. “Don’t call yourself my father. You’re not. The only man who had that right is dead, rotting somewhere I’ll never find, because of you. ”

Silco’s expression darkened, his calm evaporating. “Grudge was a necessary sacrifice,” he snapped, his voice sharp now. “Do you think I wanted to kill him? He would’ve revealed everything—destroyed the progress we’ve made. The progress I’ve made—for you two! For Zaun!”

Nyra’s hands clenched into fists, electricity surging wildly across her skin. “Your ‘progress’?” she spat. “How many people have you killed for your so-called progress, Silco? How many fathers have you taken from their children? How many children have you turned into slaves in your shimmer factories? How many lives have you ruined with that poison?”

Silco’s jaw tightened, his voice trembling with frustration as he struggled to keep his composure. “You don’t understand—”

“No,” Nyra interrupted, her voice rising. “I understand perfectly. I was blind before, but now I see it. The people in your factories, the addicts you’ve created—they’re the cost of your ambition. And you don’t even care.”

Silco slammed his head back against the chair, snarling. “Of course I care!” he roared, his composure shattering. “Do you think it’s easy to make these choices? To live with the blood on my hands? Every life lost, every sacrifice—it’s for Zaun! For a future where children like you and Jinx don’t have to suffer like we did!”

Nyra barked a bitter laugh, her expression filled with disgust. “Don’t you dare try to justify this. You’re not saving Zaun, Silco. You’re destroying it. You’re just another tyrant, trading one kind of oppression for another.”

Silco’s voice dropped, quiet but trembling with intensity. “Do you think I enjoy this? Watching shimmer eat away at my people? Seeing children waste away in the factories? I hate it. But it’s the price we pay for freedom—for the nation of Zaun. Do you think Piltover will hand it to us? No. We have to take it. And taking it means sacrifice.”

Nyra’s hands trembled, the charge building in her palms. “I’m done listening to you,” she said, her voice cold. “You’ve poisoned everything you’ve touched, Silco. It’s time to rid the Undercity of you.”

Silco watched her carefully, his mismatched eyes narrowing. When she raised her hand, the electricity crackling, he spoke, his voice low and steady. “Are you ready to do this, Spark? To make the ultimate sacrifice?”

She froze, her breath catching in her throat.

Silco leaned forward as much as the ropes allowed, his eyes boring into hers. “If you kill me, you’ll prove that you’re everything I’ve ever wanted you to be. Ruthless. Calculating. Powerful. You’ll finally become Spark. The leader Zaun needs.”

Nyra stared at him, her hand trembling as the charge sputtered and flickered.

“Do it,” Silco said, his voice soft now, almost coaxing. “Don’t doubt yourself, Spark. Don’t be afraid of what you’ve become. Spark is perfect. You’re exactly who you’re meant to be.”

Nyra took a step back, shaking her head. “No,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Silco’s gaze hardened. “Don’t be weak,” he hissed.

“I’m not weak,” Nyra said, her voice growing stronger. She lowered her hands, the electricity fading away. “But I’m not you. I won’t turn into you.”

She turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing in the chamber.

“Spark!” Silco shouted after her, his voice a mix of anger and desperation. “Spark!”

She didn’t look back.

---

Dandelion was standing outside the room, crouched low and breathing hard, a pair of unconscious goons sprawled at her feet. She looked up, her wild eyes locking onto Nyra’s with immediate urgency.

“I’ve been looking all over for you!” Dandelion panted, her face frustrated.

Nyra didn’t waste time. “Sorry, Dandy,” she said breathlessly, grabbing Dandelion’s wrist. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

The two bolted down the winding corridors of the cave, their boots pounding against the uneven stone. When they finally broke free into the open air, the steep cliff loomed in front of them, illuminated by the neon lights of the Lanes.

“Up we go!” Nyra said, yanking Dandelion along as they started climbing. The cliff’s jagged edge scraped at their hands, but they didn’t slow down. The sound of distant shouting echoed from the caves below.

Their legs pumped harder and faster. The shimmer factory loomed ahead, hope blossoming in Nyra's chest as she thought that she saw Powder's blue hair whip in the wind.

But as they sprinted toward it, Nyra felt a prickle of unease.

The goons arrived too fast.

A tide of Silco’s men poured from the shadows, their weapons gleaming. Nyra’s heart sank as realization hit her.

Dandelion cursed under her breath. “How did they—”

“He knew,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He knew I’d come here. This was his plan. He knew I would confront him. He won himself time by not stationing guards around his room.”

Dandelion looked at her, fear flickering in her wide eyes. Nyra opened her mouth to tell her to run, but the goons were already closing in.

Nyra forced a grin, turning to press her back against Dandelion’s. “Guess it’s time for some cardio,” she quipped.

Dandelion didn’t laugh. She swallowed hard, her voice trembling. “Nyra, if you use too much charge—”

“I know.” Nyra cut her off, her tone softer now. She smiled over her shoulder. “Just don’t let me fall on my face, okay?”

The first punch to Nyra’s face wasn’t what hurt. It was the split-second of weakness that followed, the stumble, the haze in her head that left an opening.

The goons didn’t hesitate. They surged forward, a chaotic tide of fists, boots, and gun barrels.

Nyra weaved through them, sparks flying from her hands like lightning breaking through a storm cloud. She threw an arc of electricity that lit up the night, the sharp crack of energy sending two men sprawling to the ground. Her hands burned, the charge growing unstable, but she didn’t have time to think.

Behind her, Dandelion was a blur of movement, her gun precise and lethal. She fired in quick succession, each shot landing with an explosive burst of force. “Nyra! Left!” she shouted.

Nyra spun, ducking under a heavy swing from a club-wielding brute. She grabbed his arm, sending a pulse of electricity through his body. His scream was drowned out by the chaos, and he crumpled to the ground, twitching.

“Couldn’t give us fewer of them, huh?” Dandelion quipped, back-to-back with her.

Nyra smirked, even as her chest heaved with exertion. “Where’s the fun in that?”

The two moved as one, a synchronized dance of survival. Dandelion’s bullets carved a path, while Nyra’s electricity lit up the darkness like a beacon. But the goons kept coming, an unrelenting wave that threatened to drown them.

A grenade sailed through the air, its fuse sparking like a firework. Nyra’s eyes widened.

“Move!” she yelled, grabbing Dandelion and pulling her into a roll. The explosion ripped through the space where they’d been standing, the shockwave sending both women sprawling.

Nyra landed hard, the wind knocked from her lungs. She coughed, pushing herself to her feet just as a hulking figure loomed over her. His fist swung down like a sledgehammer, and she barely had time to throw up her arms. The impact rattled her bones, but she redirected the energy, sending a surge of electricity through him.

The man staggered, his face contorting in pain, but he didn’t fall. Nyra’s breath hitched.

“Really?!” she shouted, frustration flaring as she ducked his next swing.

She dropped low, sweeping his legs out from under him. He toppled like a felled tree, and Nyra scrambled back, her hands crackling as she sent one last burst into his chest.

Across the clearing, Dandelion was holding her own, but the horde was closing in.

Nyra fought her way toward her, each step a battle. A goon lunged at her, and she sidestepped, driving her elbow into his ribs before frying him with a quick spark. Another grabbed her from behind, his grip crushing.

She gritted her teeth, letting the charge in her body build until it burst outward in a sharp, crackling wave. The man screamed, his grip slackening, and she spun, delivering a kick that sent him sprawling.

“Nyra!” Dandelion’s voice cut through the chaos.

Nyra turned just in time to see her friend surrounded. Dandelion’s gun clicked empty, and she swung it like a club, knocking one man to the ground. But there were too many.

Panic flared in Nyra’s chest. She raised her hands, the electricity surging dangerously.

“Get down!” she shouted.

Dandelion ducked, and Nyra unleashed everything she had. A web of electricity arced from her hands, zigzagging through the crowd. The goons screamed, their bodies convulsing before crumpling to the ground.

Nyra staggered, her vision blurring. She felt the energy drain from her body, the telltale signs of overexertion creeping in.

“We need to—” she started, but her words were cut off as another wave of goons swarmed them.

Her reflexes slowed, and a fist connected with her jaw. Pain exploded across her face, and she stumbled, her knees threatening to give out.

The world spun, and she felt herself falling.

“No!” Dandelion’s voice was sharp, filled with a desperation Nyra had never heard before.

She looked up just in time to see Dandelion shakily reach for something on the ground. The shimmer vial caught the moonlight, its liquid glowing ominously.

“Don’t!” Nyra rasped, but her voice was weak, drowned out by the chaos.

Dandelion’s face was calm, almost serene. Her hand trembled as she unscrewed the vial of shimmer, the luminescent liquid catching the flickering light of the neon lights around them.

“Dandelion, please!” Nyra staggered toward her, reaching out, but she was too far, too slow.

Dandelion tipped her head back and downed the shimmer in one swift motion.

The change was immediate. Her body convulsed violently, her veins turning a sickly, glowing purple as the shimmer coursed through her. Her muscles bulged grotesquely, stretching and twisting her frame until she was almost unrecognizable. A guttural roar tore from her throat, raw and primal, shaking the air around them.

Nyra stumbled back, eyes wide. For a moment, she thought the shimmer had killed her, but then Dandelion moved.

She lunged forward with terrifying speed, her massive hands crushing the nearest goon with a sickening crunch. Another swung a bat at her, but she caught it mid-swing, snapping it in half as if it were a twig. Her fist followed, colliding with the goon’s chest and sending him flying into a wall.

Nyra’s breath caught. “Oh, Janna…”

Dandelion was unstoppable. She tore through the horde like a storm, every blow thunderous, every movement precise and devastating. She ripped a metal pipe from the ground, swinging it in a wide arc that sent several goons sprawling.

For the first time, hope flickered in Nyra’s chest.

“They can’t stop her,” she murmured, a weak smile tugging at her lips. “We’re going to make it.”

She forced herself to stand, leaning against the wall for support. Her electricity flickered weakly at her fingertips, but she didn’t need it now. Dandelion was a force of nature, clearing a path through the chaos.

“Come on!” Nyra called, her voice shaky.

Dandelion turned, her monstrous form towering over the remaining goons. Her glowing eyes locked onto Nyra, and for a moment, Nyra saw her friend beneath the shimmer-induced rage.

But then, the sound of a gunshot cracked through the air.

Time seemed to slow.

The smell of rye stalks filled Nyra’s nostrils, sweet and earthy. She heard the soft clip-clop of hooves on damp soil, the snap of a bowstring, and the low growl of a wolf. In her mind’s eye, the bullet transformed into a shining white arrow, piercing Dandelion’s head with familiar precision. 

But then the vision was gone, and reality came crashing back. Nyra fell to her knees beside Dandelion’s still form, her trembling hands landing on her unmoving face.

“Dandelion!” Nyra sobbed, shaking her friend’s shoulder. “Please, no! Don’t do this to me!”

The hum of hoverboards in the distance broke the sound of the advancing goons, but Nyra didn’t care. She brushed a stray hair from Dandelion’s face, her fingers trembling. Her skin was still warm, her expression almost peaceful despite the monstrous transformation.

Nyra’s chest heaved with silent sobs as she touched the bird-shaped pendant around Dandelion’s neck. Gently, she unclasped it, pressing it to her lips before leaning down to kiss Dandelion’s cheek.

“I love you,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

She closed Dandelion’s eyes, her fingers lingering for a moment. Nyra sat there, cradling the pendant in her hand, repeating Dandelion's name under her breath.

Her fingers trembling as they traced the curve of her cheek, brushing away a smudge of dirt. The warmth was gone now, leaving her skin cold and pale. Nyra’s breath hitched, hiccups wracking her as tears streamed freely down her face. She cradled the bird pendant in her palm, its edges pressing into her skin.

The sounds of chaos barely registered in her mind until the sudden rush of wind forced her to look up. The Firelights swooped down, their hoverboards cutting through the air with a mechanical hum. 

It didn’t take them long to spot Dandelion’s body lying on the cold ground, her once vibrant form now still and lifeless.

There was a sharp intake of breath from one of the Firelights, followed by frantic shouts that pierced through the silence.

“Dandelion!” came a voice, hoarse with panic.

“ Hummingbird! ”

Her eyes snagged on a masked Ekko, horror dawning on him as his gaze snapped to Dandelion’s lifeless body.

She watched him slowly come out of his daze, his eyes finding hers as he let out a war cry, a hoarse, broken sound. He waved his bat in the air, signaling to the Firelights to attack.

They descended like avenging angels, striking at Silco’s goons with the rage of people who’ve lost a loved one.

Nyra’s gaze flickered through the melee and locked onto the figures emerging from the thick of the fighting. Silco. Powder.

Silco strode forward with that familiar, infuriating calm, his sharp eyes sweeping over the scene like he was calculating every move, every loss. Powder trailed behind him, clutching her weapon with a nervous grip, her wide eyes darting around like she didn’t know where to focus.

Nyra’s hands curled into fists as a snarl tore from her throat. “Silco!”

His head turned, his expression unreadable as he stopped a few feet away, Powder at his side.

Nyra’s bloodshot eyes flicked to Powder. “I’m leaving,” she said, her voice hoarse but resolute as she slowly stood up. She pointed at Silco with a trembling hand, her anger nearly choking her. “And I’m taking Blue with me.”

Silco’s face didn’t change, but his lips parted slightly, a deliberate pause before he spoke. “Spark,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying over the din of the fight. “You’re emotional. You’ve just suffered a loss—”

“Don’t you dare,” Nyra cut him off, her voice rising. Her extended hand turned, palm up, reaching toward Powder. “Blue, come with me. Please. We don’t have to stay here. We don’t have to be like him.”

Powder hesitated, her shoulders drawing up like she was bracing for something. She looked at Nyra, then at Silco.

“Blue,” Nyra pleaded, taking a step closer. Her voice cracked with desperation. “We’re sisters. Blood doesn’t matter. I’ve got your back. I’ll always have your back.”

Powder’s lips quivered. Her eyes darted between Nyra’s tear-streaked face and Silco’s calm, commanding presence.

Silco finally spoke, his voice soft, almost fatherly. “Come back, Jinx. Stay with me. With us.” He gestured between them, his words measured, soothing. “You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”

Nyra’s breath hitched, her hand still outstretched. Angry tears spilled down her face as she shook her head. “No, no! Blue, please! Don’t listen to him. We can go somewhere else, somewhere better. We don’t have to stay here. Just come with me. Please.”

Powder took a shaky step forward, her face wavering as she reached toward Nyra. But then she froze. Her hands shot to her head, smacking against her temples. “I... I don’t know!” she whimpered, her voice high and panicked.

Nyra surged forward, her instincts screaming to comfort her, to stop her from hurting herself, but Powder stumbled back, shrinking away.

“No,” Nyra whispered, her hand falling limply to her side. She flinched, her heart breaking in real time as Powder’s tears mirrored her own.

Powder stood firmly behind Silco now, her head shaking, a few strangled sobs escaping her. Silco placed a hand on her shoulder, his expression somber as he gently pulled her close. His eyes met Nyra’s, dark and steady, his look carrying an unspoken message: You’ll come back. She is still here.

Nyra’s legs felt like lead as she forced herself to straighten. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, trying to steel herself even as her chest heaved with sobs. Her eyes flicked down to Dandelion one last time, her fallen friend’s face peaceful in death.

She turned, her gaze falling on the chaos around her. Ekko was locked in a vicious battle with a burly goon, his bat clanging against the man’s weapon. She clenched her fists, her decision forming in her mind with a painful clarity.

The Firelights weren’t enough. Even with their defiance, their strength, they wouldn’t change the Undercity. Not like this.

Nyra spotted a fallen hoverboard, its sleek design marred by scratches and blood. Her legs moved before her mind caught up, carrying her toward it. She stumbled but didn’t stop, grabbing the board and throwing herself onto it.

Her feet fumbled with the movement, the machine sputtering to life as she kicked off into the air. The wind stung her face, mingling with her tears as the ground fell away beneath her.

She dared one last glance over her shoulder.

Powder was still there, her hands gripping her head as she rocked back and forth. Silco knelt beside her, his lips moving in words Nyra couldn’t hear. He glanced up at her, his gaze as unshakable as ever.

Nyra’s heart twisted, but she turned away, her focus shifting to the horizon as she pushed the hoverboard to its limit.

---

The hoverboard sputtered under Nyra’s weight, its engine whining like it was as exhausted as she was. The Undercity blurred around her—rusted steel, flickering neon, and shadows that seemed to claw at her as she zipped past. Her vision swam, but she held on, teeth clenched, her feet staying planted on the board like her life depended on it. Because it did.

The Bridge of Progress loomed ahead, the jagged line dividing Piltover’s polished skyline from the Undercity’s crumbling depths. Nyra’s breaths came in ragged gasps, her reactor dimming at her chest. She reached the bridge, her board barely skimming above the murky water below, and stopped.

“I can’t... I can’t do it like this,” she muttered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the board. Her head pounded as thoughts raced through her head. Helping the Undercity from here was a losing game. She needed to go to the root—to Piltover.

Steeling herself, she surged forward, the board hissing as it crossed the waters and touched down on the cobbled streets at the city’s edge. Her landing was less than graceful. The moment her boots hit solid ground, her knees buckled. She stumbled, hitting the pavement with a sharp scrape. Her palms and knees burned, the metallic tang of blood tickling her senses.

Cold stone met her cheek as she collapsed, her body finally giving in. The sky above was clear—a startling, unblemished blue. She hadn’t seen a sky like that since... ever. Her chest heaved. She could taste the salt of tears she didn’t remember shedding. “Please,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice cracking. “Give me a chance... Powder, Dandelion... everyone. I just need... a chance.”

The world swirled around her, spinning into darkness, but not before a soft voice broke through. Feminine, frantic, and just close enough to anchor her.

“Hey! Are you—oh, no, no, no. Stay with me!”

Nyra felt the warmth of a hand brushing her forehead, hair tickling her face. The voice was urgent, full of worry. But the words were a blur. All she could manage was a faint tap against her reactor, a whisper escaping her lips: “Charge...”

And then, nothing.

---

When Nyra came to, the softness around her was startling. Her eyes fluttered open to golden sunlight spilling through pristine windows. She was in a bed—a bed so luxurious it felt like clouds had taken a day job. Her head throbbed, and every muscle ached, but her immediate reaction was disbelief. Where was she?

The muffled sound of voices carried through the door. One was clipped, stern, clearly annoyed. The other was softer but no less intense.

“You brought her here? Do you even know who she is?” the first voice hissed.

“She needed help! You’re the one who’s always preaching about equality,” the second argued.

Nyra groaned, the debate a little too sharp for her pounding head. She sat up slowly, clutching her temple. Her hands brushed over bandages, clean and expertly wrapped. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air. She looked down and saw a nightgown—cotton, soft, and undoubtedly expensive. The thought made her snort. This single gown could buy an entire row of shacks in the undercity.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered, sliding out of bed and padding toward the balcony. The cool air hit her like a balm, though the glittering cityscape of Piltover made her stomach churn. Everything here was so polished, so pristine. It felt wrong.

Leaning against the railing, she exhaled a shaky breath and began to hum. The melody came unbidden, and before she knew it, she was singing softly:

Dear friend across the river

My hands are cold and bare

Dear friend across the river

I'll take what you can spare

I ask of you a penny

My fortune, it will be

I ask you without envy

We raise no mighty towers

Our homes are built of stone

So come across the river

And find the world below

The song felt like a lullaby, grounding her even as the emotions it carried threatened to crack her already fragile armor. She finished, her voice fading into the wind.

“That’s beautiful,” came a voice from behind her.

Nyra spun around, clutching her chest. A tall woman stood in the doorway, her deep blue hair catching the sunlight. She was elegant, her posture regal, but there was a nervousness in her piercing gaze. Nyra relaxed slightly when the woman made no move closer.

“Who... who are you?” Nyra asked, her voice still raw.

The woman tilted her head, choosing her words carefully. “You’re in Piltover. You... collapsed near the border.”

“I figured that much,” Nyra said dryly, her guard still firmly up. “Your name?”

“Caitlyn,” the woman replied. “And yours?”

Nyra hesitated, debating whether to lie. But something whispered in her that it’s time to be honest. “Nyra,” she said softly.

“Nyra,” Caitlyn repeated, as though tasting the sound. “That’s... a beautiful name.”

Nyra raised an eyebrow. “You rehearse that line?”

Caitlyn flushed slightly, glancing down at her feet. “No, I just—never mind.”

The awkward silence stretched until Nyra, exhaling sharply, decided to cut it short. “Look,” she said brusquely, “thanks for the bed, but I need to find my ride. I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Where will you go?” Caitlyn asked, her tone genuine.

Nyra blinked, caught off guard. She didn’t have an answer, and Caitlyn seemed to notice.

“You can stay here,” Caitlyn offered. “As long as you need.”

Nyra let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “You’re insane, you know that?”

Caitlyn ignored the comment and leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed and her piercing blue eyes locked onto Nyra like she was trying to solve a puzzle. “Who’s following you?” she asked, her tone calm and sharp, like the edge of a blade.

Nyra raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the balcony railing. “Wow, straight to the interrogation, huh? No small talk, no ‘How are you feeling?’ Just... that?”

Caitlyn didn’t budge. “Why do you think I’m asking?”

Nyra rolled her eyes, but her smirk faltered. “Okay, Detective,” she said, emphasizing the title like it was a joke. “Let’s hear it. Why do you think I’m being followed?”

Caitlyn stepped forward, her gaze scanning Nyra from head to toe like she was a case file. “The wounds on your body,” she began, her tone matter-of-fact. “They’re deliberate. Not the kind you get from a clumsy fall. And,” she added, holding up one of Nyra’s hands, “there’s blood under your nails. That suggests a scuffle, and judging by how deep it is, you fought back hard.”

Nyra snatched her hand away, her smirk gone. Caitlyn was sharp. Too sharp.

“And then there’s the obvious,” Caitlyn continued, undeterred. “People from the Undercity don’t come to Piltover unless they’re desperate. This,” she gestured vaguely toward the city outside, “is a last resort.”

Nyra folded her arms and stared at her. “You done, Detective?”

Caitlyn tilted her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “For now. But am I wrong?”

Nyra didn’t answer. She wasn’t about to pour her heart out to some Piltie do-gooder who probably thought charity was an exotic sport.

Caitlyn seemed to sense the tension. She raised her hands slightly, palms out. “Look, I get it. You don’t trust me. That’s fine. But I’m not here to pry into your past. I just... I want to help.”

Nyra laughed—short, sharp, and humorless. “Help? Why?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Caitlyn said simply. “A true enforcer should be kind, compassionate, and strong-willed.”

Nyra’s expression shifted, her smirk twisting into something more bitter. “Enforcer? Is that what you are?” she asked, her voice dripping with disdain.

Caitlyn shook her head. “Not yet. But I want to be. I want to be a detective. Someone who actually helps people.”

Nyra just stared at her, her expression unreadable. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she nodded. Slowly. Begrudgingly. “Alright,” she said, her voice low. “Fine. I’ll play along.”

Caitlyn’s face lit up, but before she could say anything, Nyra raised a finger. “But on one condition.”

Caitlyn’s smile faltered, curiosity replacing it. “What’s the condition?”

Nyra hesitated, glancing down at the faint golden scars that crisscrossed her hands. They caught the light, gleaming softly. She looked back up at Caitlyn, her eyes steady. “If I’m doing this, my stage name has to have ‘Echo’ in it.”

Caitlyn blinked, clearly thrown off by the request. She studied Nyra for a moment, her gaze flickering to the scars, the way they seemed to shine under the Piltover sun. Then, she nodded, a small smile curving her lips. “How about... Gilded Echo?”

Nyra repeated the name under her breath, testing how it felt. It was strange. A little dramatic. And, surprisingly, it felt... right.

“Gilded Echo,” she said finally, meeting Caitlyn’s eyes. “Yeah. That’ll do.”

Caitlyn smiled wider. “Good. It suits you.”

Nyra snorted, crossing her arms again. “Let’s just hope this isn’t one of those ‘too good to be true’ deals.”

Caitlyn’s smile didn’t waver. “No deals. Just a chance to start fresh.”

“Fresh,” Nyra muttered, the word rolling off her tongue like a challenge. “We’ll see.”

---

The hallway stretched long and cold, a lifeless expanse of gray stone and flickering fluorescent lights. The only sound was the sharp tap-tap-tap of a cane striking the tiles, steady and deliberate. A lone guard strode down the corridor, his uniform crisp, his boots polished to a mirror shine. The smirk on his face made it clear he enjoyed this little routine, this moment of control in a place built on it.

He stopped in front of a cell, the number 516 painted in faded, peeling white above the reinforced steel door. Fishing a set of keys from his belt, he took his time, letting the metallic jingle fill the silence. When he finally turned the key in the lock, the sharp scrape echoed down the hall.

“516,” he said, pushing the door open just far enough to lean against it, his cane braced like a theatrical prop. His voice oozed smugness. “It’s time for us to have a little talk about your behavior in the cafeteria today.”

A beat passed, heavy and expectant. Then a voice came from inside the cell—female, dry, and utterly unimpressed.

“You know I’m not taking this quietly,” she said, her tone bored, as if this was just another Tuesday. “Why do we even do this? You know I won’t go down without a fight.”

The guard chuckled, shaking his head as though he couldn’t help but be amused. Two more guards appeared behind him, their boots clapping against the stone as they took position on either side of him.

“That’s half the fun of these talks and you know it, Pink.” the first guard said, his smirk widening into a horrible, twisted grin.

Chapter Text

The young enforcer crouched begrudgingly beside the massive shelf, his expression caught somewhere between boredom and irritation. His fingers skimmed over the rows of binders, pausing as they snagged on a particularly faded folder. He sighed, pulling it free and cracking it open.

The first page greeted him with a waft of dust, and he squinted at the dated record. It appeared to be seven years old. Shifting his weight, he muttered something under his breath about needing a better assignment. He turned the page with a flick, already regretting being the one stuck with this task.

Description of Malfeasance: (identify any other involved parties or employee witnesses)

I attest to my statement of the above description being both accurate and parsed of any biases and opinions. The "Description of Malfeasance" is meant to serve as an empirical report of events without interpretation.

Description of Prisoner:

I attest to my statement of the above description being both accurate and parsed of any biases and opinions. The "Description of Prisoner" is meant to serve as an empirical report of said prisoner's character and history without interpretation.

Chapter Text

The trio walked with deliberate steps toward the edge of Piltover, the grandeur of the city fading as the jagged, industrial skyline of the Undercity loomed below. Caitlyn was sandwiched between Nyra and Vi, her eyes glued to the map in her hands, brows furrowed in concentration. The other two, however, were less concerned with navigation and more concerned with each other.

Vi’s gaze flitted over Nyra and Caitlyn like she was appraising a couple of art pieces she didn’t particularly like. She gave a soft snort and shook her head, her expression disbelieving.

Nyra didn’t let that slide. “What?” she asked, her tone sharp, her eyebrow arching. “Why are you ogling us like some kind of pervert?”

Vi barked out a short laugh, shooting her a sidelong glare. “Don’t flatter yourself, sunshine. I was just admiring your absolutely terrible fashion choices.” She gestured vaguely at Nyra’s coat, Caitlyn’s dress. “You’re both about as Undercity-ready as a stack of porcelain teacups.”

Nyra rolled her eyes, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Our outfits are fine, thank you very much. Not all of us want to look like we just crawled out of a garbage fire.”

Vi smirked, clearly unimpressed. “Maybe you should. It’d help you blend in better.”

Nyra knew Vi was right, but the only clothes she had that were perfect for blending in had been tragically destroyed in a.. ‘therapeutic burning session’.

“Yeah, well, excuse me if Piltover doesn’t have a section labeled ‘Undercity Chic,’” Nyra shot back, her tone dripping with sarcasm. 

Before Vi could respond, Caitlyn’s voice cut through their bickering. “Enough!” She didn’t look up from her map but managed to make them stop their argument. “Both of you, shut up. I’m trying to find the way to the bathysphere.”

Nyra and Vi both clamped their mouths shut, but their eyes were anything but cooperative. Over Caitlyn’s shoulders, they exchanged glares that could have melted steel, each sizing the other up like rivals in a boxing match. Nyra arched an eyebrow. Vi responded with a subtle shake of her head, her lips curling into a disgusted smirk.

Caitlyn walked briskly, her eyes fixed on the map in her hands, lips pursed in concentration. Beside and slightly behind her, Nyra and Vi continued flicking glances at each other when they thought no one would notice.

Nyra raised an eyebrow in Vi’s direction, her lips twitching upward in a smirk that practically screamed, So, think you’re hot shit?

Vi caught the look and responded with a slow, deliberate once-over, her expression unimpressed. She huffed a quiet laugh through her nose and turned her attention forward, shoving her hands deep into her pockets as if dismissing Nyra entirely.

Not to be outdone, Nyra tilted her head, letting her gaze wander mockingly over Vi’s bruteish gait and nasty expression. She arched an eyebrow and gave a tiny sniff, like she’d just spotted something distasteful on the sole of her shoe.

Vi caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and rolled her shoulders, the motion deliberate and loose, like a tiger stretching. She turned her head just enough to give Nyra a crooked grin, her teeth catching the light in a way that was more challenge than friendliness.

By the time they reached the edge of the city, where Piltover’s gleaming architecture gave way to the jagged sprawl of the Undercity below, Caitlyn stopped abruptly. Both Nyra and Vi quickly snapped their attention forward, acting as if they hadn’t been quietly trying to set each other on fire with their eyes.

Caitlyn pointed to a sleek, glass-and-metal lift set into the steep cliffside. The bathysphere shimmered faintly in the afternoon light, its gears and pulleys poised to descend into the depths. “The bathysphere,” she said, glancing between them. “I heard it has a good view. Could be a great way to get a lay of the land.”

Vi didn’t even glance at the lift. She pulled her hood up, muttered, “Too risky,” and strode straight to the edge. Without hesitation, she stepped off and vanished over the side.

Caitlyn gasped, rushing forward just in time to see Vi’s figure twist midair and land on a rusted metal rooftop with ease. She smirked up at Cait and Nyra, a teasing gesture, and then bolted down a series of pipes and clotheslines, her movements sharp as she disappeared into the tangle of the Undercity’s rooftops.

“Did she just—” Nyra leaned over the edge, squinting. “She just jumped off the edge ! Did she run away from us?”

“I—I don’t know!” Caitlyn sputtered, gripping the hem of her dress in a white-knuckled grip as if that might somehow bring Vi back. “I don’t think so?”

Nyra grabbed Caitlyn’s arm. “Okay, we’ll climb down! Here, give me your hand—”

“Nyra, no ,” Caitlyn said, waving her off frantically. “Follow her! Make sure she doesn’t… I don’t know, die or something!”

“Or run off,” Nyra muttered under her breath, earning a frantic wave from Caitlyn.

Nyra huffed, gave Caitlyn one last look, then muttered something distinctly unladylike under her breath before stepping to the edge. Her eyes flickered over the neon lights pulsing softly from below, her breath catching. The city seemed alive, awake. Waiting. As if it had anticipated her return, knowing that she is forever tied to it. 

Nyra hadn’t allowed herself to go near - she knew that if she were to return, to set foot in the Lanes, she wouldn’t go back to Piltover. For her, it counted as defeat. Returning home empty-handed, without influence, power, a solution. It would be the ultimate sign of disrespect.  

And she needed the power to take down Silco. To help Powder, Ekko. They couldn’t do this alone.

She closed her eyes and breathed in, and when she opened them, she leapt off, without giving herself a chance to hesitate. It was time to come back home.

---

The descent was exhilarating, the world blurring around her as she plummeted into the chaotic sprawl of the Undercity. The air grew heavy and warm, carrying the faint tang of factory fumes and soot.

Nyra’s feet struck a rusted pipe, and she used the momentum to spring onto a rooftop. The metal groaned beneath her heels as she rolled into the landing, her hands splayed to steady herself. Ahead, Vi’s pink hair flickered briefly underneath her hood, peeking between the rooftops before disappearing again.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Nyra muttered, a grin creeping onto her face despite herself.

She took off, her legs pumping hard as she jumped from one rooftop to the next. The world seemed to narrow to a tunnel of metal and steam as she moved, her senses sharpening with every leap. A wide gap loomed ahead, and she dove across it, tucking into a roll as she hit the other side.

Electricity crackled faintly along her legs, and the energy propelled her lower, faster. She whooped, the sound escaping her before she could stop it, as she vaulted over a tangle of metal and landed on a slanted rooftop.

Her breath came quick and light, her muscles burning in the best way as she darted forward. Clotheslines swayed in her path, and she grabbed one without hesitation, swinging across with a triumphant laugh.

She landed on a rooftop with a grunt, knees bending to absorb the impact. She stayed crouched for a moment, chest heaving, hands pressed against the cool, grimy metal. The leap across the massive gap between rooftops had been exhilarating, but it had taken more out of her than she’d expected.

Straightening, she muttered under her breath, “Getting a little out of shape, aren’t we, Nyra?” She rolled her shoulders, brushing off imaginary dust from her coat as she approached the ledge.

Peering over the edge, she spotted Vi a few levels below. The other woman was standing still for once, perched on a horizontal rusted pipe that jutted out precariously from a wall. Vi’s hood hadn’t moved from her head, slightly obscuring her face. She wasn’t moving—just staring out at the Undercity, her profile sharp and set in something that looked almost like… longing.

Nyra blinked, surprised by the unguarded look on Vi’s face. It was the kind of expression that said volumes without saying anything at all. A flicker of nostalgia? A hint of pain? Nyra couldn't quite place it.

She stepped back, turning her gaze away to give Vi her moment. Whatever ghosts the musclehead was wrestling with, they weren’t for Nyra to poke at. She leaned on the rooftop’s railing for a beat, letting her eyes trace the tangle of pipes and rooftops below.

When she glanced back, Vi was already on the move again. She dropped off the pipe and disappeared into an alleyway below.

Nyra exhaled softly and tilted her head upward. A few meters above, Caitlyn was making painstakingly slow progress, clutching at pipes and ledges with a grip that would probably leave permanent indentations. Her knees wobbled as she stepped gingerly along a narrow platform, her face pale as she focused on not looking down.

Nyra winced. “Sweet Janna above,” she muttered, glancing between the alleyway below and Caitlyn’s precarious position. With a resigned sigh, she grabbed hold of a pipe and hoisted herself up. She clambered onto the roof where Caitlyn was perched and stretched out a hand.

Caitlyn’s head snapped toward her, her face a mix of embarrassment and irritation. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be following her, not—helping me.”

Nyra gave her a slow, easy grin, the kind that usually made people squirm. “Oh, don’t pout, sweetness. The musclehead’ll wait for us. Trust me—she doesn’t seem like the type to bolt without rubbing in a victory first.”

Caitlyn’s lips twitched, but she quickly smothered the reaction. She hesitated for another second before reluctantly grabbing Nyra’s hand. “Fine. But only because we’re in a hurry.”

Nyra pulled her up effortlessly, chuckling. “Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

As they made their way down, Caitlyn kept her gaze fixed on the pipes and platforms in front of her, resolutely avoiding looking at the steep drops below. Her voice was tight with frustration as she asked, “How do you even run in those ridiculous heels?”

Nyra threw a cheeky glance over her shoulder. “Years of practice. Also helps to have a great sense of balance—and a killer sense of style.” She flicked the hem of her long coat with a flourish, causing Caitlyn to groan audibly.

“Your coat hasn’t even fallen off,” Caitlyn muttered. “It’s defying physics.”

“Jealousy’s not a good look on you, officer,” Nyra teased, hopping lightly onto the last platform. She turned and extended her arms as Caitlyn followed, albeit with much less grace.

“Don’t you dare—” Caitlyn started, but Nyra caught her mid-jump anyway, holding her steady before setting her down gently.

Caitlyn immediately stepped back, brushing herself off with exaggerated dignity. “I didn’t need your help, Nyra.”

Nyra just chuckled. “Sure you didn’t.”

They started walking down the alleyway, Caitlyn leading with purposeful strides while Nyra fell into step beside her, a hint of amusement still lingering on her face.

Just as they turned a corner, Vi emerged from the shadows with a casual swagger, now sporting a brand-new pink coat, her hood pulled back, revealing her bright hair. She tugged at the lapels of her jacket, adjusting them with a sharp flourish. Her eyes flicked to Caitlyn and Nyra, the corners of her mouth tugging into a smirk.

“Welcome to the Lanes.”

“You almost got me killed!” Caitlyn snapped, still catching her breath as she pointed an accusatory finger at Vi.

Vi’s eyebrow shot up. “My little sister could do that when she was seven.” She shoved her arms in her pockets, leaning slightly as she cocked her head. “All us fissure folk can. Don't you want to blend in?”

Before Caitlyn could muster a retort, Vi swung a bundle of clothes from behind her back and lobbed them toward the two women. “Here,” she said brusquely. “Put these on. You’re not walking into the Undercity dressed like that unless you’re trying to get mugged—or laughed at.”

Nyra caught her bundle of clothes with a snap of her hands, glaring at Vi. “I’m not putting this on,” she said flatly, holding up the garments as if they were contagious. They looked… well loved. Too well loved, as a matter of fact.

Vi rolled her eyes with annoyance. “Of course, Miss Enforcer wouldn’t know how to dress appropriately for the Undercity. But you?” She gestured at Nyra, her gaze raking over the other woman’s outfit with disdain. “You managed to blow my expectations out of the water with… that. Gaudy doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Nyra’s eyes narrowed dangerously, her retort already forming, but before she could let loose, Caitlyn grabbed her upper arm firmly. “We don’t have time for this,” Caitlyn said, dragging her toward a narrow alleyway without so much as a backward glance at Vi.

Nyra sputtered in protest. “Excuse me?!”

Caitlyn didn’t flinch. “You heard her. Change.”

Vi’s smug chuckle followed them, and Nyra glanced back just in time to catch the nasty smirk Vi threw her way. The smugness practically radiated off her, and Nyra bristled, muttering under her breath as Caitlyn hauled her out of sight.

Once they reached a relatively secluded corner, Caitlyn finally released her grip. Nyra rubbed her arm with a huff, glancing down at the clothes in her hands like they were cursed. She sighed and glanced toward a trash can in the distance. Three unconscious bodies were sprawled haphazardly inside it, stripped to their undergarments. Nyra snorted in surprise, shaking her head.

“Let me guess,” she muttered to herself, examining the clothes again. “These are stolen from those poor sods. Charming.”

Grumbling, she reluctantly began to change. First, she pulled off her own coat and meticulously folded it, setting it aside to later give to an Undercity child - after all, the coat could fetch a good price. Then came her blouse and pants, which she exchanged for the rough, mismatched pieces Vi had provided.

The dark tank top clung tightly, and she grimaced as she adjusted it. The long-sleeved jacket with the hood felt worn and slightly oversized, but at least it wasn’t offensive. It carried the faint metallic tang of the Undercity- a smell she hadn’t realized she missed.

When it came to the fishnets, she paused, holding them up to inspect the damage. One leg was intact, riddled with the expected holes, while the other was nonexistent. “A bold artistic choice,” she scoffed under her breath, tugging them on regardless.

The single long sock she pulled on her bare leg drew another muttered remark. “What are we going for here, starving punk band chic?” But she didn’t linger; Vi was undoubtedly tapping her foot impatiently somewhere nearby. Nyra shoved on the shorts, scoffing again at the absurdly tight fabric. What am I? A worker in the Gardens? Couldn’t she have stolen clothes from a toddler instead?

Then came the boots—stiff and worn, the kind that seemed like they’d seen a few bar fights of their own. They were janky and scuffed but surprisingly sturdy. She knelt to lace them, her fingers working quickly.

Caitlyn, already dressed in an outfit equally ill-suited for her usual polished demeanor, stood a few feet away, watching. Her arms were crossed, her expression hovering between mild impatience and concern. Nyra didn’t look up, but she could feel those sharp blue eyes boring into her, studying her with the clinical precision of a detective.

Nyra tied the last lace, then stilled. For a long moment, she stayed crouched, her hands resting on her knees. She closed her eyes, exhaling through her nose.

She hadn’t pulled her hair into her signature braid in years—not since she’d left. Back then, braiding her hair had been a comforting ritual, one she shared with Powder in quieter moments, one Silco’s approving gaze had lingered on when he thought she wasn’t looking. But when she left that life behind, the braid went with it. She’d told herself she didn’t need that part of her anymore, didn’t need the weight of the past hanging on her shoulders.

But now…

With a swift motion, she grabbed the edge of the tank top and tore a strip from the hem. The sound was sharp and clean, slicing through her hesitation.

She braided her hair quickly, her hands moving with muscle memory she hadn’t used in years. The motions were almost meditative, each twist pulling her closer to something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time. She tied the braid off with the strip of fabric, tugging it snug before opening her eyes. 

Her gaze found Caitlyn’s, the enforcer’s expression unreadable now. “Ready,” Nyra said simply, pulling the hood of the jacket up over her head. 

Caitlyn tilted her head slightly, studying her as though she wanted to say something but chose not to. Instead, she offered a small nod, stepping back to let Nyra take the lead.

Nyra turned, her boots scuffing against the cracked pavement as she moved toward the alley’s opening. The braid swung lightly against her back, a weight that felt comforting. A tether to her past, maybe—but not an anchor. Not anymore.

---

The air between Nyra and Caitlyn felt oddly quiet after they’d finished putting on the stolen clothes. Wanting to cut through the tension, Nyra sidled up to Caitlyn and gently jabbed her elbow into Cait’s ribs, her grin spreading mischievously.

“You know,” Nyra started, her voice dripping with faux sultriness, “you’re kinda hot, sweetness. This Undercity look is totally suited to you.” She added an exaggerated wink for good measure, her grin widening as she watched Caitlyn’s expression shift.

Caitlyn rolled her eyes with the grace of someone who’d dealt with far worse flirtations, though a small chuckle escaped her. “And you,” she replied, voice prim, “are incorrigible.”

Nyra shrugged, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. She looked up at Caitlyn from beneath her hood, the streetlights casting a shadow over her face. “Maybe. Or maybe,” she tilted her head, “you should try not being so... uptight.”

Caitlyn furrowed her brows, glancing down at herself, as if inspecting her posture for signs of stiffness. “Uptight?” she repeated, genuinely confused.

Nyra laughed, shaking her head and stepping away. “Don’t strain yourself, Cait. Just a thought.”

She sauntered over to where Vi stood, her lip curling slightly as she approached. Vi didn’t even bother hiding her irritation. Her sharp eyes flicked over Nyra and Caitlyn’s forms before she shoved her hands into her pockets with a sigh. Without a word, Vi turned and started walking ahead, her shoulders slouched.

Nyra shared a look with Caitlyn, her brow raising slightly as if to say, See? Abrasive. Caitlyn merely offered a small shake of her head, the corners of her mouth twitching upward.

With a casual shrug, Nyra followed Vi’s lead, her boots tapping rhythmically against the cobblestones as they made their way deeper into the Lanes.

---

The food stall in the heart of the Lanes wasn’t much to look at—a ramshackle counter flanked by mismatched bar stools, its wood worn smooth by years of questionable transactions. The vendor was a massive blue-skinned man with fins framing his face and an eyepatch that made him look like a pirate straight out of Bilgewater. A wooden plank rested on his shoulder, dotted with the hilts of various knives and cleavers, which he casually pulled out to chop up chunks of a slimy blue meat that shimmered unsettlingly under the dim light.

Vi strode up to the counter first, tapping her knuckles against the wood in a practiced rhythm.

The vendor—Jericho, apparently—looked up, his single eye lighting up in recognition. He threw his head back and let out a hearty cackle, his laugh echoing down the alley. Without a word, he slammed a bowl of the questionable blue meat in front of Vi, who grinned like she’d just won a prize.

Nyra, standing a step behind Caitlyn, raised an eyebrow. She watched Jericho with amusement before rapping her own knuckles against the counter. He glanced at her, his smile broadening, but Nyra gave him a slight shake of her head, as if warning him to pretend he doesn’t know her.

Jericho chuckled knowingly, sliding a plate of food her way too. Caitlyn, meanwhile, hovered uncertainly, glancing between the vendor and the “food” with thinly veiled apprehension.

Vi wasted no time. She dug in, shoveling the slimy meat into her mouth with unabashed gusto. “Gods,” she moaned, licking her fingers with exaggerated relish. “I missed this stuff, Jericho. You have no idea.”

Jericho grinned and kept chopping, his laughter booming like distant thunder. 

Nyra eyed Vi over Caitlyn’s shoulder before leaning down to inspect her own plate. The blue meat gleamed in the faint light, its texture somewhere between rubber and gelatin. She’d eaten delicacies from distant lands, tasted wine that was as close to ambrosia as any alcohol could get, and yet her stomach grumbled the moment her eyes landed on the bowl of food. Shrugging, she grabbed a piece of meat and popped it into her mouth.

Her eyes widened for a moment before she hummed, closing her eyes. “Damn,” she admitted, licking her fingers. “This is better than roe.”

Caitlyn stared straight ahead, not focusing on anything in particular, trying to drown out the sounds of Vi and Nyra slurping, as her fingers worried the sleeve of her new top. She looked more like someone bracing for a board meeting than someone sitting at a dingy food stall in the Undercity.

Vi, meanwhile, was busy polishing off another plate of blue meat. She licked her fingers with an exaggerated pop , savoring the last bite like it was the finest meal she’d ever had.

Nyra, close to finishing her own bowl, leaned back slightly and caught Vi’s eye. Both of them simultaneously reached toward Caitlyn, plates in hand, offering chunks of the slimy blue meat like peace offerings—or maybe challenges.

“Go on,” Vi said with a smirk, waggling her bowl in Caitlyn’s direction.

“Yeah, dig in, Cait,” Nyra added, glaring daggers at Vi as she leaned forward, mimicking the offer.

Caitlyn shot them both a sharp look, her lips tightening in annoyance. “No, thank you.” She yanked her hood tighter over her face, as if shielding herself from the very suggestion.

Vi shrugged, unfazed. “Your loss,” she said around a mouthful, shoving another piece into her mouth with enthusiasm.

Caitlyn leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering her voice as her eyes darted around for eavesdroppers. “Are you going to question him or not?”

Vi glanced at her mid-bite, one brow arching upward. “Question him about what?” she asked, her expression confused. “The meat?” She jerked her chin toward Jericho, who was happily chopping away, scratching his rear with a nonchalance that suggested hygiene wasn’t high on his list of priorities.

“Definitely not above board,” Nyra chimed in with a lazy shrug, swirling the last of her food around the bowl.

Caitlyn exhaled sharply, her patience fraying. “No, about Silco . His connections. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

Vi’s eyes rolled so hard it was a wonder they didn’t stay stuck. She swallowed her bite and leaned back, rolling her shoulders like she didn’t have a care in the world. “We’re here,” she said in annoyance, “because I’m hungry.”

Her face blanked as she gestured towards Cait. “You know what prison food’s like?” She didn’t wait for Caitlyn to respond. “No, of course you don’t.”

Caitlyn stood abruptly, the stool scraping against the cobblestones. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her posture curled inward with frustration. “This is unbelievable,” she snapped. “I didn’t break you out of jail so you could eat... slop .” She gestured furiously toward Nyra. “And I didn’t ask you to come just to... join her in shoving your face with slop !”

Nyra sputtered, her mouth open to fire back, but then Caitlyn rounded up on Vi, her face a mask of frustration “You don’t even know anything, do you?”

Vi didn’t glance at Caitlyn as Jericho interrupted by sliding a folded napkin across the counter toward her. The big man grinned, nodding once before turning back to his chopping.

Vi tilted her head, unfolding the corner of the napkin to reveal a small, familiar symbol etched in ink. Her lips curled into a faint smile. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and said, almost to herself, “Mmm. Better than I remember.”

Jericho cackled, his laughter booming as he resumed cutting meat, his massive frame swaying slightly with the effort.

Vi stood, shoving the napkin into her pocket, and walked off without so much as a glance back.

Caitlyn bristled but hurried after her, muttering under her breath about priorities and proper planning.

Nyra lingered for a beat, turning back toward Jericho with a sly grin. “Thanks for the meal, Jericho.” she said, saluting him with two fingers.

Jericho, not looking up from his work, saluted back over his shoulder, his fins fluttering slightly with the movement.

Nyra jogged to catch up with the others, falling into step with Caitlyn as Vi led the way, her posture casual. “You know,” Nyra said as she glanced at Caitlyn, “you really should try the meat next time. Builds character.”

Caitlyn’s glare could have frozen the entire bathysphere mid-descent.

---

Jinx perched on her workbench, her boots swinging idly as the blaring music filled the room. Her goggles were on her eyes, her braids swaying behind her, as she hummed along to the beat. Sparks flew in a satisfying arc as she soldered two pieces of jagged metal together. The bass thumped through the space, and she swayed in rhythm, completely absorbed in her work.

“Jinx.”

“Jinx!”

She didn’t hear the angry shouting until it was right on top of her.

“ JINX! ”

The record screeched to silence, and she blinked up, mildly annoyed, as Silco loomed over her, veins practically bulging in his neck. He was holding the needle of the record player in one hand, his face a storm of barely contained fury.

“That’s me!” Jinx chirped brightly, her voice drenched in cheer as she pulled her goggles up and above her eyes. 

Silco’s glare could have melted steel. “Half a dozen enforcers, dead . Enforcers . Dead. ”

“Yeah!” Jinx said, leaning forward on her workbench with a dreamy sigh, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

“And,” Silco seethed, pacing like a caged animal, “a building. Blown. To. Pieces.”

Jinx clasped her hands under her chin, smiling even wider. “Oh, yeah.”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Silco’s voice was sharp enough to cut glass.

Jinx tilted her head, as if giving the question actual thought. Then her grin turned sly. “You know what? I do .” She reached under the clutter on her bench and pulled out a shimmering blue hex crystal. Holding it up to the light, she gave it a playful twirl.

Silco froze, his anger momentarily forgotten as his eyes locked on the crystal. His voice dropped to a low rumble. “Is that...?”

“Happy Progress Day!” Jinx declared, leaping off the bench and hurling herself at Silco. She clung to him like a monkey, laughing as she buried her face in his shoulder.

Silco hesitated, his arms stiff, before slowly wrapping them around her. His voice softened, but only slightly. “Can you weaponize it?”

Jinx pulled back, her expression bright as a sparkler. “Dunno.” She twirled the crystal between her fingers again, as if the answer might reveal itself in the glimmering facets.

“Try,” Silco said curtly, releasing her. Without waiting for a response, he spun on his heel and stalked away from the workshop, his coat billowing behind him.

Jinx shrugged, tossing the crystal lightly into the air before catching it again. She plopped back onto her stool, letting the silence settle in the space left by Silco’s departure. Her fingers rolled the crystal back and forth, her eyes flicking to the pendant hanging in front of her— the little cloud she’d once worn with care.

Her face shifted. For a moment, she wasn’t Jinx anymore. She was Powder, staring at a swirling piece of hex crystal floating in the shimmer concoction inside Nyra’s reactor. Her chest tightened with an emotion she couldn’t quite name, a hollow ache that threatened to swallow her whole.

“Shut up,” she muttered under her breath.

The ache deepened. She could hear Milo’s voice, taunting, accusing.

She left because she doesn’t love you. Just like Vi did. Because you are a Jinx. 

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” she screamed, hurling a wrench at the dummy slumped on the couch. It hit the metal Mylo square in the face, leaving a fresh dent amidst the doodles and scorch marks. His fake hair was half burnt, his lifeless form an easy target for her rage.

Breathing hard, Jinx ripped her goggles down over her eyes, blocking out the pendant, the memories, the pain. She picked up the crystal, her hands steady now, and bent over her workbench. Sparks flew again, her focus razor-sharp. She refused to look at the cloud pendant again. She didn’t need to.

Powder was gone.

Jinx had work to do.

---

Vi hauled herself onto the creaky balcony, her movements sharp, almost aggressive. The brick crunched under her boots as she straightened, her breathing shallow and clipped like she’d sprinted the whole way there. She leaned heavily on the rusted railing, her hands curling around it in a grip so tight her knuckles blanched. Below, the Last Drop glowed with garish neon, its twisted light slicing through the haze of the Undercity like a blade. The shadows it threw were jagged, chaotic, crawling over the milling bodies of Silco’s goons lounging out front.

Her jaw set, and her teeth pressed together hard enough to hurt. It was like staring at a grave, but worse—like staring at one that someone had dragged a corpse out of and dressed it up in some sick parody of what it had once been. Vander’s bar. Our home. Her fingers dug into the railing harder, and for a moment, she imagined tearing it off, throwing it at the neon sign below just to see it all shatter.

Nyra climbed up after her, her movements quieter, more deliberate. She paused as she hit the balcony, the faint crunch of the brick under her boots the only sound she made. Her hood shadowed her face, but her eyes flicked up to Vi briefly before settling on the scene below. The sight of the Last Drop hit her like a sucker punch, and her stomach churned. She forced herself to stay steady, leaning against the railing with a feigned casualness that she didn’t feel.

The bar looked the same and yet didn’t. The same bones, but the flesh was all wrong. The light, the noise—it was all off, like the soul of the place had been stripped out and replaced with something rotten. It had changed for her - it was once a place she could call home, with both Grudge and Silco. Silco had taken away that comfort - she now saw it for what it was. Corrupted, dirty - he had slithered his way into its very marrow, rotting it from the inside out.

Caitlyn stood a little farther down the balcony, her posture curious as her hands rested lightly on the railing. Her head tilted as she studied the bar below, her sharp eyes scanning every corner like a detective piecing together a crime scene.

“That place,” Caitlyn remarked, her voice calm but her tone faintly biting, “looks like it has bodies buried in the basement.”

Nyra let out a dry huff of laughter, but it came out hollow. She didn’t have it in her to joke back, not here, not now.

Vi’s fingers twitched against the railing. The comment—Caitlyn’s casual dismissal, her ignorance and Piltovan tendency to turn a blind eye to the pain of Undercity citizens—grated against her nerves like sandpaper. Her grip tightened even more, the railing groaning softly under the strain. Her shoulders rose and fell sharply as she sucked in a breath, trying to rein herself in. The Last Drop didn’t deserve her anger, not the husk it had become. But Silco? Silco deserved every bit of it.

Without a word, she pushed herself off the railing. The sudden motion sent a jolt through the rickety metal, and her boots struck the balcony with a loud, deliberate thump. She stormed past Caitlyn, her shoulder colliding with the other woman’s as she went, knocking her slightly off balance. “You don’t know anything.”

Caitlyn gasped, watching Vi’s retreating form, jogging after her after waiting a beat.

Nyra’s gaze lingered on Vi’s retreating figure, watching the tense set of her shoulders and the way her fists stayed clenched at her sides. She chewed the inside of her cheek, her thoughts snagging on the rawness of Vi’s reaction. Why is she so pressed about the Last Drop? It wasn’t just anger; it was something deeper, heavier. Vi’s reaction to the Last Drop didn’t feel casual, not by a long shot. Nyra turned her gaze back to the neon-drenched building below, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her own memories of the place pressed against her ribs, reminding her of the moments she refused to revisit, of her horrible experiences in the building.

 But Vi? Why was she so pressed about the Last Drop? 

The thought scratched at her mind, pulling at loose threads she didn’t have the time to unravel. Her own emotions toward the Last Drop felt tangled enough without trying to dig into Vi’s too. Still, it nagged at her, sitting there like a splinter she couldn’t reach.

She turned her attention back to the bar below, and her stomach twisted again. The neon was too bright, the noise too loud. The air around the place felt heavy, oppressive, and wrong. It wasn’t the home she remembered; it was a cheap imitation, one that mocked both the glamour Silco had put on it and the light that Vander once breathed into it.

“Let’s move,” Vi’s voice snapped from ahead, tight and clipped.

Nyra straightened, pushing off the railing with a quiet sigh. She fell into step beside Caitlyn, who had a small frown creasing her brow as she glanced after Vi. Nyra said nothing, her own thoughts too tangled to offer any comfort.

---

As they approached the Gardens, Nyra’s chest tightened like a vice. Her steps faltered, but she forced herself to keep pace, her hood pulled low. She didn’t need this. Not now, not ever. Yet here it was, the building standing before her, looking no different from when she’d last seen it—a place that once felt alive, like it pulsed with its own heartbeat. The Gardens.

The memories crept in like thieves. She could almost hear the sound of Dandelion’s laugh, clear and sweet as a bell, ringing through the halls. The way they used to sneak off together, slipping past watchful eyes to steal a moment of freedom. It wasn’t just a brothel to them; it was an escape, a place where they could be themselves without the weight of the world, of responsibility, crushing them.

But Dandelion was gone. That laugh was gone.

Nyra’s throat tightened as the wave of grief hit her. She balled her fists, her nails biting into her palms through the sleeves of her jacket. She couldn’t let herself spiral, not here. 

Memories were traitorous things.

She cast a glance at Vi and Caitlyn ahead of her, their backs to her, unaware of the turmoil brewing in her chest. A small part of her envied their ignorance. They didn’t know what it felt like to walk into a place haunted by ghosts. She swallowed hard, forcing her breathing to steady.

The Gardens loomed larger as they approached. It was louder now, the muffled sounds of life inside pushing against her thoughts, drowning them out. The door was only a few steps away, but her feet felt like they were moving through molasses. With a deep breath, she shoved the grief down where it couldn’t choke her, where it couldn’t reach her.

Vi stopped at the door and knocked twice, her movements sharp. A peephole slid open, revealing a pair of narrowed eyes. They exchanged a silent nod before the heavy door creaked open, revealing the vibrant, chaotic underbelly of the Gardens.

The three of them filed into the narrow hallway, the door closing with a soft thump behind them.

Nyra kept to the shadows, her hood casting a veil over her face. The last thing she needed was for one of Silco’s goons to recognize her—or worse, report back to Sevika. 

Dead to me.  

The mantra repeated in her head as she shoved her hands deeper into her pockets and followed Vi and Caitlyn further inside.

The Gardens were alive with activity: rooms where lovers intertwined in secrecy and indulged in voyeurism, others where strangers shared platonic solace over drinks and stories, all draped in soft lighting and a haze of smoke. Nyra’s eyes darted across the hall, taking in everything while pretending not to look.

Caitlyn, however, was like a deer in headlights. She glanced into rooms with wide-eyed curiosity, only to snap her gaze away, her cheeks turning a vivid shade of red. Nyra bit back a chuckle, her lips curling into a smirk.

Caitlyn, her voice shaky, whispered, “How exactly do you propose we go about this?”

Vi raised a brow, her expression unreadable. “Simple,” she said. “Let people think you work here.”

“What?!” Caitlyn sputtered, her posture stiffening. “I will not—”

Vi sighed dramatically and turned to look at both Nyra and Caitlyn with a frustrated look. “You know what your problem is?”

Nyra crossed her arms, leaning against the wall to let someone pass, waiting for Vi to elaborate. “Please,” Caitlyn said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Do enlighten me.”

Vi circled Caitlyn slowly, like a wolf sizing up its prey. “You expect everyone to give you what you want. If you want people to talk, let them think you have what they want.”

Caitlyn looked skeptical, arms crossed as she shot back, her eyes flickering over to Nyra, “And… what do we have?”

Vi tilted her head, sparing a teasing glance at Nyra before smirking. “You’re hot, Cupcake.”

Before Caitlyn could protest, Vi slammed her against the wall—not hard, but enough to make her gasp. She caged her in with her arms, her voice dropping to a sultry drawl. “So, what’ll it be? Man or woman?”

Caitlyn opened her mouth, her brain short-circuiting. “Uhh... I—”

Vi didn’t wait. She grabbed a masked man who was passing by and thrust him in front of Caitlyn. 

The man gave an awkward wave. “Hi, uh, I’m Pim.” He fidgeted nervously before stammering, “What’s your name?”

Vi’s grin widened as she wrapped an arm around Pim’s shoulders. “Matilda,” she said sweetly, jerking her thumb toward Caitlyn. “But you can call her whatever you want.”

She sauntered away without looking back, flashing Nyra a smirk as she passed.

“Ah, yes,” Caitlyn said, her voice rising an octave and changing her accent as she scrambled for words. “Matilda. My parents named me Matilda. After my, uh... great-grandmother Matilda. The, um, famous...”

Nyra snorted, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh. She threw Caitlyn a mock-sympathetic look before jogging to catch up with Vi, ignoring Caitlyn’s silent pleas for help. “You’re cruel,” she said, her voice tinged with amusement.

Vi shrugged, her hands in her pockets, not bothering to deny it. “She’ll get used to it. That’s life, isn’t it?”

Nyra rolled her eyes and walked beside her in silence, the faintest grin tugging at her lips.

They stopped in front of a room draped in muted fabric. Vi hesitated, then without looking at Nyra, said, “I need a moment. Alone.”

“Suit yourself,” Nyra said with a shrug, stepping back.

As Vi disappeared behind the curtains, Nyra walked forward, and then retraced her steps, her gaze flitting inside an occupied room. She stopped at the doorway, something inside catching her eye. With a grin, she ducked inside, leaving Vi to her privacy.

---

Vi shoved the curtain aside without any dramatics. The dim light inside the room painted her features in shades of amber and red, making the slight scowl on her face look even fiercer.

Behind the desk, a tiny yordle woman froze mid-scribble, her oversized ears twitching upward in alarm. Her hand paused over a piece of parchment, and she blinked rapidly before breaking into a slow, incredulous grin.

“Well, would you believe it,” Babette said, her voice a smoky rasp.

Vi strode across the room, boots thudding against the worn carpet. She flopped onto one of the couches with zero ceremony, sitting spread-legged, uncaring about appearances. Babette’s grin faded into a look of guilt as she got up from her chair and ambled over to a cabinet.

The yordle pulled out a glass and poured a generous splash of amber liquid from an old, battered decanter. She carried it over to Vi, who accepted it with a small, grateful smile that almost looked like it hurt her face to make. Babette perched herself on the couch opposite, lighting a cigarillo with a match that flared briefly in the dim room. The scent of tobacco mingled with the faint tang of spilled booze that seemed soaked into the walls.

“Sweetheart,” Babette began, her tone soft but carrying the weight of something heavy, “I was real sad to hear about Vander. And the kids. Just terrible.”

Vi twirled the drink in her hand, watching the liquid catch the light as it swirled around the glass. For a moment, she didn’t answer. Her posture tensed, her free hand clenching into a fist on her knee.

“By the looks of it,” Vi finally said, her voice low and sharp, “no one down here lifted a finger to stop Silco.”

Babette leaned forward, propping her tiny elbow on her knee as she gestured with her cigarillo. A curl of smoke swirled up lazily between them.

“A few tried,” she said, her tone edged with resignation. “But Silco’s got the muscle... and the money. He took over the Last Drop, and everything else that mattered along with it.”

Vi let out a short, humorless laugh through her nose. “Yeah, I saw,” she said, her voice tight.

Babette sighed, taking a slow drag from her cigarillo before speaking again. “Things have changed without Vander looking out for us. I heard Silco’s got some form of... biological weapon. Though it hasn’t been sighted for the past two years. I’m afraid I don’t know much else.”

Vi’s eyes dropped to her boots. The glass in her hand hung limply, almost forgotten. “I’ll find out myself,” she muttered, her voice hardening. Then she looked up, her eyes catching Babette’s. “Have you heard anything about Powder? I think Silco has her. I have to find her.”

Babette’s expression softened, her brows knitting together as she shook her head gently. “Silco’s number two’s a regular here,” she offered. “I can have Miguel tell you where to find her.”

Vi stood abruptly, leaving the half-empty glass on the table. She didn’t say thank you—she wasn’t sure she could without her voice cracking—but as she reached the curtain, she glanced over her shoulder. “I owe you.”

Babette leaned back into the couch, sighing as the curtain swung shut behind Vi. “It’s nothing,” she murmured, the words almost lost in the haze of smoke around her.

---

Vi stepped out into the hallway, the muffled noise from the other rooms a hum around her. She adjusted her jacket absentmindedly, her mind swirling with everything Babette had just said, and everything she hadn’t.

A sound caught her attention—soft laughter, playful and unfamiliar, coming from one of the rooms just ahead. Vi’s eyes narrowed as she approached. Peeking inside, she found Nyra, perched on a low divan, her hood pushed back, her face lit with mischief.

Opposite her was a big, muscular woman with tan skin and arms that looked like they could wrestle an ox. The woman was leaning in close, her hand tracing lazy circles on Nyra’s thigh. Nyra, meanwhile, was stroking the woman’s bicep with a touch that seemed both playful and admiring, her lips curling into an amused grin as she spoke. Whatever story she was telling had the woman hanging on her every word, her gaze locked on Nyra like she’d forgotten the rest of the world existed.

Vi let out a soft scoff, somewhere between amused and surprised. She shook her head, stepping away before Nyra could catch her watching, a small smirk tugging at her lips despite herself.

Chapter Text

Nyra lounged on the divan, a smirk playing on her lips as the muscular woman traced idle circles on her knee, utterly enthralled by the story Nyra had been spinning. But when Vi passed by the doorway, that unmistakable shock of pink hair peeking through and confident stride catching Nyra’s eye, she shifted. Her smirk faltered. With a quiet apology and a wink to the woman—who frowned but still asked if Nyra would come back—Nyra smiled, pulled her hood over her head, and slipped out into the hallway.

Jogging to catch up to Vi, she fell in step beside her, a slight bounce in her step as she tilted her head. “What’s the plan? Or are you gonna run away from us again?”

Vi didn’t miss a beat, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “I never ran.”

Nyra rolled her eyes dramatically, the kind of eye roll that could cause permanent damage. “Semantics,” she shot back, folding her arms.

A soft snort escaped Vi as she turned her gaze forward. “You need to relax, sunshine. I’m not here to encroach on your turf.”

Nyra blinked, furrowing her brows. “What turf?”

Vi shrugged calmly. “I’m just saying—I don’t want to be a homewrecker.”

Nyra stopped in her tracks for a second, staring at Vi’s retreating figure. Then it clicked. Her eyes widened in sheer horror. “Wait. Wait . You mean Cait?!”

Vi glanced over her shoulder, smirking like a cat who’d just spilled the milk. She gave a slow, smug nod.

Nyra practically tripped over her words, her hands flailing slightly. “She’s—what?! We’re not —that’s not—she’s—”

“Got it.” Vi gave her a mock-serious nod, her smirk widening. “Good to know I won’t be a homewrecker.”

Nyra glared at her with the kind of intensity that could probably vaporize lesser mortals. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still in need of my knowledge.”

Grinding her teeth, Nyra pressed on, her voice tight. “Where are you going, if you’re not running?”

“To beat up a traitor.” Vi shrugged like she was announcing the weather.

“What traitor?” Nyra asked sharply, her eyebrows furrowing. Who did Vi have to settle a score with? 

Vi turned, walking backward now, her hood tugged up. “What, Sunshine and Cupcake aren’t smart enough to figure it out?” She smirked again, spun on her heel, and disappeared into the night.

Nyra groaned, her hands clenching at her sides as she glared at the empty space Vi had just occupied. “You absolute— ” she bit off the insult and hung her head, her eyes clenched as she breathed in and out slowly to calm herself down. 

Her eyes snapped open and she stormed back into the brothel, her jaw tight and her fists clenched at her sides. Vi’s smug smirk still burned in her mind like an annoying itch she couldn’t scratch. The audacity. The nerve. The sheer gall of that woman to waltz out with a cryptic one-liner and leave her to deal with the mess knowing that Nyra wouldn’t leave Caitlyn alone in the Lanes.

She barreled down the hallway, shoving the curtain aside on the first room she came to. A burly man with a fox mask turned to her in surprise, a small glass of something green in his hand. “Uh, busy here?”

“Not who I’m looking for,” Nyra snapped, already pulling back and heading for the next room.

Curtain after curtain flew back as Nyra peeked inside, muttering a string of curses under her breath. “Caitlyn, where the hell are you?” Her voice was a sharp whisper, a little desperate now as she pushed past a couple arm-in-arm in the narrow hallway.

One door swung open just as Nyra passed it, nearly clocking her in the face. She jerked back with a growl, glaring at the culprit. “Watch it!”

“Why don’t you watch it?” the man slurred before stumbling into the nearest wall.

Nyra didn’t have time for this. She darted past him, her heart hammering harder with every second she couldn’t find Caitlyn. If Vi got herself killed, or even worse, ran away—and oh, wouldn’t she just love to rub that failure in Nyra’s face from beyond the grave or whatever nasty little place she chose to run off to—Nyra would never forgive her.

She passed by another curtain, the faint sound of Caitlyn’s voice filtering through, making her retrace her steps and almost stumble over her feet with how fast she changed course. Her head whipped back, and she peeked inside. There Caitlyn was, seated across from a woman with a white mask, who leaned forward like Caitlyn’s words were the most fascinating thing she’d ever heard.

“Cait!” Nyra barked, stumbling into the doorway.

Caitlyn jumped slightly, her eyes snapping to Nyra in alarm. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Nyra threw her hands up in exasperation, her hood slipping back. “What’s wrong? Vi left, that’s what’s wrong!”

Caitlyn frowned, confusion knitting her brow. “What do you mean, she left? Where did she go?”

“Something about beating up a traitor.” Nyra waved her hand vaguely, already pulling Caitlyn to her feet. “You know, classic Violet shit. We have known her for less than a day and she’s pulled the same stunt twice .”

“Wait, what traitor?” Caitlyn pressed, her voice rising slightly in urgency.

Nyra rolled her eyes, practically dragging Caitlyn into the hallway. “Do I look like her diary? How should I know?”

Caitlyn adjusted her holster as she tried to keep pace with Nyra’s frantic strides. “Well, what do you know? Anything that might help us figure this out?”

Nyra threw her head back with an exaggerated groan. “Oh, sure, let me just pluck the answer out of thin air, Cait! I’ll sprinkle in a magic spell while I’m at it!”

“I was just asking, no need to take out your displeasure with Vi’s antics on me,” Caitlyn muttered, clearly unimpressed.

Nyra turned a corner sharply, nearly skidding into a wall, her eyes flickering apologetically to Caitlyn. “Look, give me a second to think, alright, Cait? It’s not like she left a neon sign pointing to her next disaster and it’s stressful having to mop up other people’s messes again after.. Such a long time.”

Caitlyn fell silent, her footsteps echoing softly against the brothel’s worn floorboards. Nyra pushed aside the growing panic in her chest, forcing herself to focus.

She disliked Vi. Hated her smugness, her recklessness, her constant need to prove something. And yet… Why did she feel so… familiar? The way she acted, her refusal to listen to Nyra and the way she did whatever she wanted. It reminded her of Pink an awful lot.

Nyra’s heart twisted painfully in her chest. Pink was dead. She was pretty sure of it. 

Nyra shook the thought away. Her mind scrambled as she thought about clues that she’d gotten from both the musclehead and Caitlyn. Vi didn’t like Silco. She’d made that clear. So if she was going after a traitor, it had to be someone tied to him. Somewhere tied to him.

Then it clicked.

“The Last Drop,” Nyra murmured.

“What?” Caitlyn asked, her tone confused.

Nyra’s eyes snapped to Caitlyn, determination blazing in them. “She’s going to the Last Drop. It’s Silco’s place—it has to be.”

Without waiting for a response, she grabbed Caitlyn’s wrist and bolted down the hallway.

“Nyra, what—!” Caitlyn yelped, stumbling after her as they weaved through the brothel and out into the chill of the night air.

“You wanted to know where she went?” Nyra called over her shoulder, her hood slipping further down as they sprinted into the maze of alleyways. “Well, you’re about to find out.”

Caitlyn tightened her grip on her rifle as they ran, her breaths coming short and fast. “You’re sure about this?”

Nyra didn’t look back. “Trust me,” she said, her voice steady despite her racing heart. “I know exactly where she’s headed.”

Caitlyn’s eyes snagged on Nyra’s covered head, her lips pursing as she questioned exactly how much Nyra knew about Silco. She didn’t allow herself to dwell on the thought for long, though.

The neon glow of the Last Drop loomed closer, its jagged lights reflecting off the wet cobblestones as they rounded the final corner.

---

Nyra and Caitlyn crouched low behind the corner of a building, breaths clouding the cold air as sounds of chaos spilled out of the Last Drop. Metal clanged against concrete, muffled grunts and sounds of a scuffle cutting through the dull hum of the Undercity nightlife.

“Great,” Nyra muttered, her eyes narrowing at the glow of the bar’s tinted windows. “She’s already started her one-woman demolition derby.”

Caitlyn adjusted her rifle strap, whispering, “What’s the plan?”

Nyra peeked around the corner and gestured for Caitlyn to follow. “Try to keep her from dying.”

They darted into the alley, their footsteps light against the wet cobblestones. Nyra pointed up to a precarious beam overhead, her hood slipping back slightly as she leaped and grabbed hold. She swung herself up with ease, then leaned down to offer Caitlyn a hand.

Caitlyn hesitated, her eyes darting up and down to gauge the height she would have to climb.

“Cait,” Nyra hissed, “it’s not going to bite you.”

With a sigh, Caitlyn grabbed Nyra’s hand and scrambled up, awkwardly finding her footing. Nyra smirked, giving her a little pat on the shoulder before moving ahead. They weaved across rooftops, their silhouettes barely visible against the hazy glow of the city below, until they reached a narrow path connecting two balconies.

Nyra crouched on the edge, motioning for Caitlyn to take position. “Sniper perch, top marks. Go be your posh Piltover self up here.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow but said nothing, quickly unhooking her rifle and settling in.

Nyra vaulted onto the connecting balcony just as the sound of fighting reached a fever pitch. Below, on the dirty, grimy street behind the bar, Sevika was sprawled on the ground, her mechanical arm pinned under Vi’s boot. Vi leaned in, her grip like a vice on Sevika’s neck.

Nyra froze momentarily - seeing Sevika after two years of quiet loathing made her hairs stand on end and caused her reactor to softly hum to life. Her feelings of betrayal were the only reason other than trying to gain a political foothold that had kept her away from flings or relationships.

Even from this distance, Nyra could see Sevika’s lips moving, her voice too low to hear over the din. Whatever she said made Vi freeze, her posture stiffening.

Oh, no, Nyra thought, her stomach flipping.

Vi’s hesitation lasted a second too long. Sevika’s mechanical fingers snapped upward, the sharp points driving into Vi’s abdomen.

Nyra’s eyes widened as she scrambled to get into position, her reactor slowly charging up. She couldn’t see Vi die, too. No matter how abrasive she was, Nyra couldn’t afford for her to die. Couldn’t take it.

“Vi!” Caitlyn gasped, her knuckles white around her rifle.

Sevika leaned up, her lips moving again—taunting, snarling—before she dragged Vi to her feet by her chin. Vi’s body sagged, blood staining the front of her shirt.

Nyra’s heart pounded in her chest, each beat resonating with the low hum of her reactor as it ramped up its charge. Electricity coursed through her, snaking up her chest and down her arm in crackling, controlled streams, gathering at her fingertip in a sharp, focused point. She shifted slightly, ensuring Caitlyn’s line of sight wouldn’t catch her movements—not even a flicker in her peripheral vision. Caitlyn didn’t know the full extent of what Nyra’s reactor could do, and Nyra wasn’t planning to change that today.

Caitlyn adjusted her aim, her rifle steady as a rock. “I’ve got the shot.”

“Do it,” Nyra breathed, her eyes never leaving the cartridge in Sevika’s shoulder, primed to pump shimmer into her system.

The crack of Caitlyn’s rifle split the air just as Nyra fired a near-invisible bolt of electricity. The combined force shattered the cartridge, sending Sevika stumbling back with a pained grunt. Vi dropped to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut, clutching her abdomen.

Sevika’s hand gripped her mechanical shoulder, her expression twisting as she looked up. Her eyes lifted—and found Caitlyn first, her expression twisting with anger. But then her gaze shifted to Nyra.

For a moment, time seemed to slow.

Sevika’s hard expression cracked, something raw and haunted surfacing beneath it. Her lips parted, and her voice barely carried over the noise.

“You.”

Nyra froze. Her chest tightened, and her breath hitched as the weight of Sevika’s gaze bore down on her.

The grief hit first, sharp and unforgiving. Memories of secrets shared in front of a small makeshift memorial, gifts exchanged and treasured, the quiet comfort of Sevika’s touch, all tarnished by betrayal. Guilt followed close behind—guilt for the anger that burned through her, for the stupid feeling of betrayal that refused to let go of her no matter how much she wanted to leave the past behind. She didn’t care for Sevika that way anymore.

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

Sevika’s eyes flickered with something close to regret, but it was fleeting, replaced by an expressionless mask.

Nyra’s throat tightened, but another shot from Caitlyn’s rifle broke the moment, slamming into the exposed mechanics of Sevika’s arm. Sevika staggered, her teeth bared in anger as she retreated into a foggy alleyway. She shot one last look at Nyra before disappearing into the shadows.

She would be reporting to Silco, no doubt.

Nyra didn’t have time to dwell on it. She and Caitlyn dropped down, their boots hitting the ground with muted thuds. They scanned the alleyway, but Sevika was gone.

Caitlyn holstered her sniper rifle with a practiced motion, the metallic click echoing softly in the now-quiet alleyway. She exchanged a quick glance with Nyra, and without a word, the two of them sprinted toward Vi, who was slumped against the grimy brick wall.

Vi sat on the ground, her breathing shallow, one hand pressed tightly to her abdomen as blood seeped through her fingers. Her lips were pale, but her eyes were sharp as she looked up at the approaching figures.

“Took you two long enough,” Vi rasped, her voice rough and edged with a grim sort of humor.

“Save it,” Nyra snapped, crouching beside her. Her eyes quickly scanned the wound, her expression hardening. “We’re getting you up.”

Vi raised a brow, but before she could retort, Nyra grabbed her extended arm and hauled her upward. Vi groaned, her legs wobbling beneath her.

Caitlyn was at her other side in an instant, looping Vi’s arm over her shoulder and steadying her. “On three,” Nyra muttered, adjusting her grip. “One, two—”

“Just do it already,” Vi grumbled, gritting her teeth as they lifted her upright.

Both women ignored her as they got her into position, Vi leaning heavily on their shoulders. Nyra’s free hand shot out to press firmly against the wound on Vi’s abdomen, the pressure making Vi wince.

“I need to keep pressure there,” Nyra grated out curtly.

“Oh, good, a doctor too,” Vi quipped weakly, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward in a faint smile.

Nyra rolled her eyes but didn’t dignify the comment with a response. She adjusted her grip again, her movements sharp.

Vi’s tired gaze flickered to Caitlyn, and her smirk widened slightly. “Not bad, Cupcake,” she said, her voice soft but teasing.

Caitlyn blinked, caught off guard for a moment. “Excuse me?” she said, arching a brow.

“You’re an all right shot,” Vi continued, her tone casual, as if she weren’t bleeding all over the place.

Caitlyn scoffed, her lips curving into an indignant frown. “I’m an excellent shot,” she corrected sharply. “And stop calling me that.”

“But you’re so sweet,” Vi retorted with a pained chuckle, the smirk on her face refusing to waver despite her obvious discomfort. “Like a cupcake.”

Nyra snorted, quickly turning her head to hide the grin that threatened to break across her face.

Vi noticed, her tired eyes glinting with mischief as they shifted to Nyra. “And you,” she said, her tone teasing despite the weariness that laced her words, “you’re not so bad yourself, sunshine.”

Nyra’s head snapped toward her, one brow arching incredulously. “Not bad?” she repeated, her voice dripping with mock offense.

“Yeah,” Vi said, her smirk deepening. “You’re an all right tracker.”

Nyra let out a sharp laugh, her tone turning playful as she raised her chin. Slipping effortlessly into Caitlyn’s clipped accent, she said, “Actually, I’m an excellent tracker. And stop calling me sunshine .”

Vi chuckled softly, her voice barely audible over their footsteps. “But you’re so bright and positive, like a ray of sunshine,” she shot back, her tone dripping with mock sincerity.

Nyra rolled her eyes, though a smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Say that again, and I’ll punch your wound,” she threatened, her tone light but laced with just enough menace to be convincing.

Vi snorted, shaking her head weakly. “Wouldn’t put it past you. Piltie princesses and their love for violence.”

Caitlyn sighed dramatically. “Could you two please save the petty bickering until we’ve at least patched her up?”

“Petty?” Nyra and Vi said in unison, both turning incredulous looks toward Caitlyn.

“Yes, petty,” Caitlyn shot back, her voice dry. “Unless you’d like me to leave you both here to sort it out on your own.”

That earned her silence—if only for a moment.

Vi let out a soft chuckle, the sound fading into a sigh as she leaned more heavily on them. The three disappeared into the fog, Caitlyn quietly taking the lead. Her eyes darted to the crumpled handkerchief from Jericho’s in her hand, the faint symbol etched on it glinting under the dim light of the streetlamps.

---

Silco sat in his office chair, the faint glow from the massive green-tinted circular window in front of him shedding a soft light on his features. His movements were precise as he dabbed at the pale powder around his corrupted eye, ensuring the makeup was blended well enough to dull the harshness of his scarred features. He set down the powder puff for a moment, inspecting his work with a small hand mirror, his gaze darting from his reflection to the world outside.

The door burst open without so much as a knock.

Sevika limped in, clutching at her mechanical arm, shimmer dripping onto the carpet. She didn’t look like she cared.

“You’re making a mess,” Silco muttered, his tone clipped as he studied her through the mirror.

Sevika didn’t stop, dragging herself to his desk with a grimace. “The sister’s back,” she said, her voice strained.

The mirror snapped shut with a sharp click . Silco swiveled in his chair, his calm veneer fracturing as he leaned forward, his hands braced against the desk. His mismatched eyes locked on her, the usual menace behind them overtaken by something dangerously close to panic.

“From the dead?” he hissed, his voice low, almost disbelieving.

Sevika nodded, biting back a wince. “There’s more.”

Silco’s fingers curled into the edge of the desk. “Spit it out already.”

Sevika hesitated, her gaze darting anywhere but to his. Finally, she said it. “Spark’s back too. And she’s with the sister—and some enforcer girl.”

For a moment, the room was silent. The air felt heavier, tighter.

Silco froze, his eyes unblinking as the words settled. His hand drifted to his pant pocket almost instinctively, brushing over the fabric. When he finally moved, it was swift and deliberate. He straightened, the calm mask returning to his features as he locked eyes with Sevika, who, for the first time in years, looked as if she had seen a ghost.

“Gather everyone. Anyone available. We’re going on a little hunt,” he ordered, his tone razor-sharp. “Patch yourself up afterward. I’m tired of you dripping all over my office.”

Sevika nodded once, wordlessly, her eyes staying on him a second longer as if she was debating whether to talk to him about it or not, and limped back toward the door with a resigned sigh. It closed behind her with a muffled thud , leaving Silco alone with his thoughts.

He released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His hand fluttered over his pocket again. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he pulled out a small metal cigarillo box. It gleamed faintly under the light, polished from years of habit.

He opened it, revealing a single cigarillo nestled inside. The last one. The last of the cigarillos that Nyra had given him nearly three years ago on Janna’s Day. His gaze lingered on it, the memories flickering through his mind like the dying embers of a fire.

His fingers hovered over it, trembling ever so slightly. Then he gritted his teeth and snapped the lid shut.

The box disappeared back into his pocket as he stood abruptly, yanking on his jacket with jerky movements. Without a second glance at the window or his desk, he stormed out of the office, the door slamming shut behind him.

---

Nyra and Caitlyn moved cautiously, supporting Vi between them. Vi’s weight sagged against their shoulders, her boots dragging occasionally against the uneven cobblestone.

Caitlyn took the lead, her jaw set, her eyes darting ahead for any signs of danger. Nyra glanced over Vi’s slumped head, arching a brow. “So, Officer ‘Cupcake’, where exactly are you dragging us?”

Caitlyn didn’t turn, her voice calm but clipped. “To the building with the sign. I spotted it while we were climbing down.”

Nyra smirked faintly. “The sign? That’s pretty general.”

But she already knew where they were going. Deep down, she recognized the route Caitlyn was taking them. The twisting alleys, the faint hum of machinery, the sharp stench of refuse—they were heading toward the homeless encampment. Toward that dilapidated building where she’d first met Powder and Ekko.

Her lips twitched into a brief smile as the memory surfaced: Powder’s bright, grateful grin when Nyra and Ekko had helped take her back to the Last Drop, Ekko’s small, round face, the feeling of both of them babbling so much Nyra’s ears nearly fell off. She could almost hear their voices, almost feel the warmth of their presence.

But the smile didn’t last. Guilt followed it, creeping in like a shadow.

She’d left them.

She hadn’t had a choice, of course. She knew that. And even if she did, it was the only way to help them, to do something for the Undercity. But knowing didn’t stop the ache in her chest, the what-ifs gnawing at her soul. She clenched her jaw, her expression hardening as she shoved the thoughts aside.

Caitlyn’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Nyra.”

Nyra snapped her attention back to the present, meeting Caitlyn’s concerned gaze as she slowed her pace.

“Can you hold her on your own for a minute?” Caitlyn asked, her voice soft. “I want to scout ahead. Make sure it’s safe.”

Nyra gave a stiff nod, a tight-lipped smile tugging at her mouth. “Go play hero, sweetness. We’ll manage. Just be safe.”

Caitlyn hesitated, her eyes flicking between them. Then, with a worried look, she moved ahead, her silhouette blending into the haze.

Vi groaned softly, shifting, and Nyra adjusted Vi’s weight, her free hand pressing firmly against the wound in Vi’s abdomen. The sticky warmth of blood seeped through her fingers, and she forced herself not to think about it. Not about the way it clung to her skin, not about the sharp, metallic scent mingling with the humid air.

But it was impossible to block it out entirely. The smell, the texture—it pulled her back. Back to burning shimmer, to the wheezing pain in her lungs, to the sharp sting of her own blood running down her face. Down Dandelion’s face. She shook her head sharply, as if to physically shove the memories away.

She tensed, her breath catching in her throat.

“Hey.” Vi’s voice broke the spell, low and rasping but enough to jolt Nyra back.

Nyra glanced down at her, startled. Vi’s head was still slumped forward, but her half-lidded eyes peeked up through strands of pink hair.

“What’s on your mind, Sunshine?” Vi asked, her lips quirking weakly.

Nyra snorted, rolling her eyes in annoyance. “Nothing. And it’s not your business to care.”

Vi chuckled, though it was more a wheeze than anything else. “Easy to annoy. Got it.”

Nyra sighed, the sound soft and uncharacteristically apologetic. “Sorry,” she muttered, her voice barely audible. “Old habits.”

“Mm?” Vi shifted slightly. “What habits?”

For a moment, Nyra didn’t answer. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze focused ahead as if Caitlyn’s retreating figure held all the answers. Finally, she exhaled, her voice quieter now.

“You just… remind me of a friend I had. Once.”

Vi hummed softly, her lips curling into a faint smirk. “Highly unlikely. No one’s as hard-headed as me.”

Nyra barked a short laugh despite herself. “You’d be surprised.”

They fell into silence, the only sounds the faint scuff of their footsteps and the distant clamor of the Undercity.

 After a beat, Vi’s voice came again, softer this time.

“That’s why I treat you this way too. I don’t hate you.”

Nyra blinked, looking down at her in surprise. Vi’s tired eyes were already on her, steady despite the exhaustion etched across her face. 

“You remind me of a friend I had too. She was… special to me,” Vi murmured.

Nyra’s gaze lingered on her. The pallor of her skin from blood loss. The dark circles under her eyes. The scar on her upper lip. The inked “VI” under her eye. 

She didn’t know how to console her - was she supposed to give her condolences? To ask Vi to share more about her friend?

No. She somehow knew that that’s not what Vi would want. Not now. 

Nyra smirked, the teasing coming naturally. “Suppose if my friend were still alive, she’d probably tattoo her name in a goofy-ass way, just like you did.”

Vi snorted weakly, her shoulders shaking in a faint laugh. “I think the opposite about mine. If she were alive, she’d probably be ruling the Undercity at this point. Definitely wouldn’t be doing it in high heels and designer clothes - practically begging to get mugged.”

Nyra chuckled, her lips quirking. “Fixed the problem, didn’t I?”

Vi grinned faintly, her teeth just barely showing. “Yeah. Only because I gave you something decent to wear.”

They shared a teasing glance, the tension between them momentarily forgotten. The corners of Nyra’s lips twitched, and Vi’s tired eyes held a flicker of warmth.

Ahead, Caitlyn’s figure emerged through the fog, her hand raised in a silent beckon. Together, they moved forward, following her into the haze.

---

Nyra and Vi caught up to Caitlyn, who was standing near the edge of a steep drop. The faint light from the Undercity’s makeshift lamps illuminated the jagged cliffside, but it wasn’t the rocks or the drop that caught Nyra’s attention. It was the structure below.

The building stood out like a wound in the landscape—a collapsing husk of metal and wood nestled among the ruins of the homeless camp. Nyra’s gaze fixed on it, her breath hitching slightly. For years, she’d thought the central feature was a windmill, like the ones her mother used to show her in those old Noxian drawing books. But now, from this angle, she saw the truth.

The “blades” weren’t blades at all. They formed the outline of a massive eye.

The same symbol etched on the handkerchief from Jericho.

Nyra sighed, the weight of realization settling over her. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she muttered.

Caitlyn turned to her, oblivious. “This is the place,” she said matter-of-factly.

Of course it was.

But why? 

Vi shifted against her, clutching her wound as she peered down at the steep drop. Nyra tightened her grip on Vi’s arm to steady her, but Vi was already pulling away, her movements sluggish but determined.

“Hey—what are you doing?” Nyra demanded, her brows knitting together.

Caitlyn glanced at Vi, then at Nyra. “How are we supposed to get down there?” she asked, her voice edged with slight discomfort, just as Nyra muttered, “There’s gotta be a path to the bottom somewhere on the left—”

But Vi didn’t wait.

She stepped to the edge and jumped.

“Vi!” Caitlyn shouted, her voice rising in panic as Vi slammed into a beam on her way down.

Nyra gasped, her mouth hanging open in disbelief.

Vi’s grip slipped. She tumbled again, her body colliding with another beam before rolling sideways down the sloped surface. Each impact made Nyra wince, and when Vi finally hit the ground, she barely moved.

“Unbelievable,” Nyra hissed through clenched teeth.

Caitlyn found her voice. “She’s… insane,” she muttered, still wide-eyed.

Nyra didn’t bother arguing. Instead, she pointed to a dent in the cliffside. “There. We can get down that way.”

With swift movements, they secured a rope, Caitlyn sliding down first. Nyra followed, taking a different route, jumping from beam to beam. Her boots found narrow footholds, her balance sure, and when she reached the ground, she landed softly, already moving toward Vi.

Vi was struggling to stand, her hand pressed weakly against her wound. She looked worse than before—paler, sweat glistening on her forehead.

“You move like a trencher, Sunshine.”

“Shut up. Stop moving,” Nyra snapped, hurrying over. She slid her arm around Vi and helped her to her feet, half-dragging her inside the dilapidated building.

The interior was worse than Nyra remembered. The walls were patched with scrap metal and cloth, and the air was damp and cold. She guided Vi to a thin, worn-out mattress and eased her onto it, leaning her against the wall.

Vi whimpered softly, her face twisting in pain.

Nyra froze. Seeing Vi like this—so vulnerable—was jarring. The fiery, stubborn woman who so far had made it her mission to be as annoying as possible was reduced to this. Nyra’s chest tightened, but Caitlyn’s frantic voice snapped her out of it.

“What do we do?!” Caitlyn asked, panic creeping into her tone. “We don’t have medicine—”

Nyra stood quickly, taking Caitlyn’s hands in her own. “It’s okay,” she said firmly, her voice steady despite the panic. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Caitlyn bit her lip, then nodded, though the worry didn’t leave her eyes. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the handkerchief, pressing it into Nyra’s hand. “I’ll look for medicine,” she said.