Chapter Text
"The strongest iron is forged in the hottest fire, but sometimes it carries the scars of the flame."
- Marcus Aurelius, Meditations
Jayce figures he's either about to get a new customer—or a stab in the gut.
Honestly, you never know what you're going to get when the forge door opens. It's a fifty-fifty chance in the Undercity.
Jayce barely has time to breathe when a gust of air sweeps into the workshop, bringing with it the unmistakable stench of Zaun's streets: rust, oil, damp concrete. He pauses mid-swing—the hammer in his hand raised high over a glowing bar of metal—and fucking sighs.
It's not even past seven in the morning. Whoever it is better have a damn good reason to interrupt him this early. Unless they're here with a life-altering invention, a pile of gold, or breakfast, Jayce is dangerously close to telling them to turn right back around.
The hammer is set down with a heavy clang.
Jayce leans back against the workbench, and the brace on his leg tugs uncomfortably; it never fails to remind him of all the ways life here never stops taking.
He's lived in Zaun long enough to understand how the city works. You either learn to stand on your own two feet, or you get swallowed whole.
He learned that the hard way.
Born in Piltover, Jayce remembers a time when life didn't revolve around grime and grease.
His father was an inventor. Not famous, not the kind of name that turned heads in Piltover’s gleaming halls, but respected—a man with steady hands, sharp ideas, and a firm grip on the city’s scientific community. He was the kind of man people trusted to get things done, to innovate quietly without the pomp or pretense so many others in Piltover craved.
Jayce remembers those days clearly; the two of them in their small workshop. He remembers the weight of science books in his hands, each with the promise of something new to discover. Most were too advanced for him at the time, the diagrams and equations spiraling into incomprehensible shapes, but that never stopped his father. He’d sit with Jayce for hours, guiding his fingers over the pages, helping him understand how the world fit together piece by piece.
The man had been brilliant.
But brilliance alone wasn't enough.
Jayce was only seven when it happened; his father’s death came swiftly, a cruel punctuation to a life that should have been filled with discovery. One moment, his family was whole, and the next, it was a house without its foundation.
He remembers his mother’s hands shaking as she packed what little they had left into worn suitcases: delicate instruments and half-finished prototypes his father had poured his soul. Piltover’s shining streets turned their backs on them. Zaun was the only option.
It was supposed to be temporary.
It wasn't.
Zaun was nothing like the clean streets of Piltover. Everything was grittier. The air clung to his lungs, thick with smoke and fumes. For Jayce, a child who had known light and open skies, the Undercity was a whole different world. It was scary.
And then there were the other kids.
They didn't make life any easier. Jayce didn't exactly fit in—being from Piltover made him stand out. Not in a good way, either. They weren't interested in making friends with someone who had come from the gleaming city above.
Once, they stole the small toolkit his father had left him. That hurt more than any bruise.
But what really got to Jayce was how alone it made him feel.
The Undercity was awful enough. He missed Piltover. Yet every time Jayce thought about complaining, he'd see the tired lines on his mother's face and the hollowness in her eyes when she returned from the textile factory.
So, he kept his mouth shut and learned to deal with it.
Eventually, Jayce started spending his time watching the mechanics in the forge down the street. That was when the spark for invention first caught fire in him. It was something he could lose himself in, something that didn't care where he came from.
If Jayce could create something useful, something that worked . . . then maybe he could make a life for himself.
Now—over twenty years later—Jayce is a man of the Undercity through and through.
He's moody, self-reliant, strong willed, and aggressive when necessary. His hands are so calloused they could probably file metal on their own, and his clothes are more patchwork than fabric. He's as rugged as they come: overgrown hair, a beard that needs a proper shave, skin smeared in soot.
As for his body?
If scars were worth a coin each, he'd be filthy rich.
Which would be helpful right about now—since he's got about as much money as a broken pocket can hold. Supporting himself and his mother is a daily exercise in frustration.
No time to think about all that, though. Not when a stranger steps into the forge.
New customers mean one of two things: business or backstabbing. Sometimes both. You learn pretty quick to stay on your toes, unless you're aiming to lose a few.
Jayce instinctively scans for weapons.
The stranger doesn't look dangerous: thin, pale, with a face sharp enough to cut glass. Dark hair falls to his shoulders in uneven waves, the tips streaked with platinum. A black coat clings neatly to his narrow frame.
There's a limp in the man's step too. Jayce's eyes instantly catch the cane in his hand . . . and then the gleaming metal brace on his leg.
Huh. It looks just like his. Jayce doesn't see that often.
Hell, he rarely sees leg braces at all. Most folks in Zaun who get hurt bad enough don't have the means to build something that works. An injury like that is usually a sentence down here.
It makes him a little curious.
"You're early," Jayce says gruffly, wiping his hands on a grease-stained rag. "I usually don't get visitors until eight." He nods toward the man's brace. "What's wrong with it? You need a repair?"
The stranger's mouth twitches, as if amused by the bluntness.
"No. This one functions adequately, though it leaves much to be desired in terms of efficiency." His voice is smooth, with a thick accent Jayce doesn't recognize. "I am here to commission a something. I have a design."
That piques Jayce's interest. Most people around here barely know how to describe what they want, let alone stroll in with actual blueprints.
"A design?" Jayce asks.
The man nods, pulling a neatly folded sheet of blue paper from inside his coat. He offers it to Jayce.
"Yes. A new brace, superior to my current model. I have the parts to construct it myself, but I believe you possess the necessary skill."
Jayce takes the paper warily and unfolds it.
The design is intricate. Precise down to the smallest detail. A labyrinth of lines and calculations. Whoever made this didn't just have knowledge; they had vision. His fingers brush lightly over the paper, tracing the lines. It's more advanced than anything he's ever seen in Zaun.
And far more refined than the brace strapped to his own leg.
"Who came up with this?" he asks.
"I did."
Jayce blinks. "You designed this?"
It's not that he doubts the man's intelligence—there's something about him, sharp and calculating—but designs like this? Around here? Rare. Almost unheard of.
Most people in Zaun are more interested in patching things up than perfecting them.
"Yes." The man's eyes are remarkably golden; they rival the firelight as he speaks. "The blacksmith in Piltover claimed he could not do it. Perhaps the design was beyond his capabilities." He pauses, before shrugging. "Or perhaps he simply did not wish to serve someone from the Undercity. So I came here—where skill, I trust, outweighs prejudice."
He lifts his chin, as if daring to be proven wrong.
Jayce frowns.
The mention of Piltover isn't lost on him. Few people from Zaun ever end up in the gleaming city by choice. Even fewer return. He's about to ask what kind of circumstances would push him there when the man speaks again.
"I am aware that the forges in this area typically concern themselves with, eh . . . rudimentary projects." His tone is polite, but there's a faint edge of condescension. "But I have heard that your work is . . . how shall I put it? Surprisingly competent."
Jayce snorts. "Surprisingly competent, huh? High praise." He watches the man casually, but there's nothing relaxed about it. "Plenty of forges in the Undercity—most of them cheaper and less likely to ask questions. So, why mine?"
The stranger's gaze drops; it rakes over the scars crisscrossing Jayce's forearms, and then the metal contraption on his leg.
"Because I suspect that you are not just a blacksmith. You aspire to be more." His eyes jump up to meet Jayce's again: unnervingly sharp. "Otherwise, you would not have built your own brace, and I would not be standing here."
Jayce stiffens. It's not often someone reads him so easily. Even less often that they have the nerve to say it out loud.
He peers back down at the blueprint.
This design is far beyond what he's used to working on. The precision, the complexity . . . it's a good thing he likes a challenge.
"I can build it," Jayce says at last. "But it won't be easy. Or cheap."
"I can provide the necessary materials. And I am willing to compensate you fairly for your time."
The response stops Jayce mid-thought.
Not the money part. That's great too, but the mentions of materials is what really grabs his attention.
Jayce has always wanted to be an inventor.
It's a part of him he doesn't share often. No one in Zaun really cares about dreams unless they involve staying alive another day.
But fuck—he loves science.
The problem-solving. Taking an idea and turning it into something real. If Jayce could be anything in the world, he'd be a scientist; not just some guy pounding out knives and tools. He'd create things that mattered. Made life better.
Dreams like that only go so far down here.
Jayce has learned to work with what he gets—which is rarely more than broken parts and rusted junk. There's only so much you can do with someone else's garbage.
Still, he's kept that spark alive, even if it's just a flicker most days.
But this man . . . he said he has the materials. Actual, proper parts. Not scraps.
Jayce's heart beats just a little faster. If this is real, then maybe—just maybe—this is his chance to finally do what he's always wanted. To invent something new. Something that isn't patched together with scraps, but made with purpose.
He's tired of the monotony of hammering out knives and random junk for every thug in Zaun.
This could be something worth his time.
"All right," Jayce says, meeting the man's gaze with a determined edge. "I'll do it. But only if I'm not just some hired hand. I want in on everything—picking the parts, welding it, fitting it. The whole deal."
The stranger arches a brow. His mouth flattens into a line; the mole above his lip shifts with the motion. "You want to be partners?"
"What? No," Jayce says quickly. "I just want to be involved." He gestures vaguely toward the blueprint. "It's your design. I get that. I just . . . I want to do more than bang some metal together and call it a day."
"Yet you are proposing a partnership of sorts. You want to contribute beyond what I am asking. To influence the project as a whole. That is the nature of collaboration, no?"
Jayce opens his mouth, then closes it again, thrown by the man's logic. He wasn't expecting such a formal analysis. It's actually pretty uncomfortable.
He's about to backtrack when the man speaks again.
"But if you wish to involve yourself . . . I see no reason to object. Provided, of course, that you do not slow the process. Efficiency is paramount."
A grin almost splits Jayce's face—fuck, when was the last time he even smiled?—while a rare flash of excitement sparks in his chest. And damn if it doesn't feel weird.
He somehow manages to keep a neutral expression.
"Come back tomorrow," Jayce says, already placing the blueprint on the workbench and reaching for his tools. "I'll have something to show you."
"I will return at dawn."
The stranger turns toward the door after that. Jayce is going to let him leave, but something bugs him. He tosses a look over a shoulder, voice cutting through the quiet hum of the forge.
"I didn't catch your name."
The man stops mid-step and glances back. For a long time, he doesn't answer. He just stares at Jayce—really stares at him—with eyes that are piercingly bright. There's an intensity in that gaze; it makes Jayce stand a little straighter without even realizing it.
Then, finally:
"It's Viktor."
Each syllable is sharpened by that accent; it makes the name sound ethereal as it rolls off his tongue. Jayce files it away.
"Jayce," he offers in return, "Since it looks like we'll be seeing a lot more of each other."
It feels weird to say. Sure, Jayce has repeat customers: gang members who need their knives sharpened, merchants looking for tools, the occasional man with something barely held together.
But none like this one.
This guy isn't here for a quick fix or a cheap weapon. He's different. Precise. Calculated. Someone with a mind sharp enough to match the edge of any blade Jayce's ever forged.
Viktor inclines his head; a barely-there acknowledgment, before continuing toward the entrance. "Do try not to disappoint me."
Jayce doesn't even get the chance to answer, because the door is already creaking shut behind Viktor. The familiar weight of the city presses down on him once more: thick, heavy, always there.
Yet it doesn't feel quite as suffocating. It's lighter now. Different.
For the first time in years, Jayce isn't just pounding metal for scraps or scraping by in the grind of survival. This isn't another routine job spent sweating over steel with nothing to show for it but aching muscles and soot-streaked hands.
It's something that might just be worth all the heartache.
And that?
That feels like a damn good start.
The forge quiets as Jayce moves through the motions of shutting down for the night.
The fire in the furnace has dimmed to a faint orange glow. He wipes down his tools and hangs them on their hooks with care. It’s a routine; one that lets his mind settle after hours of work, even if it doesn’t bring much peace.
Afterwards, he shrugs on his coat and turns toward the door.
That’s when Jayce catches it—his reflection.
The mirror is cracked along one edge, its surface smudged with oil and grime, but it still serves its purpose. It’s mounted on the wall near the door: a leftover relic from the shop’s previous owner.
Jayce keeps it around, not for vanity, but practicality. It’s good for checking if he’s smeared grease across his face or if his welding goggles have cracks.
He wonders what Viktor saw when he looked at him earlier.
Maybe that's what makes Jayce check now. Maybe that drives him to the mirror as if the answer might be waiting there, shimmering in the grime-streaked glass.
Jayce doesn’t know what he expects to find. Clarity? Truth?
All he sees is himself.
The light spills unevenly across Jayce’s face, broken and shifting like something alive. It casts shadows into the sharp planes of his bearded jaw and sloped nose. His brows sit heavy above hazel eyes, thick and dark, pulled together in a perpetual frown.
A resting bitch face, if Jayce has ever seen one.
But it’s the scars that stand out the most.
They crisscross Jayce's face in a map of all the times he’s been cut, burned, or beaten down. The most prominent one is on his upper lip, a deep ridge carved by an accident in The Lanes—a shard of glass hurled from a fight that wasn’t Jayce's but became his anyway. It pulls whenever he talks.
His mom still calls him handsome, even with the scars. Especially with the scars. Jayce isn't sure if she really believes it, or if she just wants him to. She says they make him look strong.
Jayce runs a fingertip over each one, feeling the rough texture of his skin. Strong. Sure. Maybe. But mostly, it just feels like another reminder of everything the Undercity has thrown at him—and how much of it has stuck.
Jayce wonders again what Viktor saw when he looked at him earlier.
Did he see the scars, the perpetual frown, the signs of a man worn down by the city? Or did he see something else? Something Jayce himself could no longer recognize?
“Still breathing,” Jayce chuckles bitterly, barely above a whisper. “Guess that’s good enough.”
With that, he turns toward the door, and heads out into Zaun’s smog-choked night.
Viktor lingers on his mind.