Chapter Text
Jinx had a long and colourful list of names for Sevika—ogre, wannabe, flippy-flappy, resting-batch-face—the list went on, evolving with every encounter. It was a little game she played, hurling whatever insult came to mind whenever Silco’s ever-so-lovely left hand (and wasn’t that ironic) happened to be in her line of sight. The woman was as charming as a rusted nail, all scowls and half-lidded stares, and Jinx never missed an opportunity to let her know just how much she enjoyed her company.
Not that the feeling wasn’t mutual. Sevika didn’t like her either—that much was obvious. Hell, the woman barely tolerated her presence, always watching her with a look that teetered somewhere between disdain and barely contained irritation. That suited Jinx just fine. As far as she was concerned, Sevika was a humourless buzzkill with all the warmth of a brick wall.
But for all her griping, Jinx hadn’t expected Sevika to be incompetent. No, Sevika was many things—boring, grumpy, a colossal killjoy—but sloppy? That wasn’t like her. And yet, here Jinx was, caught by enforcers, her arms wrenched behind her bac5k, the weight of their bodies still lingering from the takedown. That long-legged chick had hit her like a freight train; she had to find her eventually to return the favour.
And Sevika? Oh, she had smirked. Jinx had seen it, plain as day. A twitch at the corner of her lips, the smug, satisfied little curve that made Jinx’s blood boil as they escaped. She could hear her now, drawing some sarcastic remark as she watched Jinx get dragged off.
Still, Jinx wasn’t worried. Not really. Sevika knew where she was, and Marcus was a fish in their tank. She’d be out soon enough. The only real downside was that Silco would be stuck without someone to help with his needle, and ugh, that was going to be a mess. And, well… Stillwater was a real drag.
That was another thing. Why Stillwater? This wasn’t some dingy lock-up in the Lanes. No, this was a full-blown fortress of a prison, a place they sent people to rot. It didn’t make sense. And then there was the fact that there was no trial, or were those Pilties so far up their ass they didn't give Zaunites a chance at one?
The place was as dreary as she’d imagined—grey on grey, punctuated by harsh red and white lights. The walls sweated with the constant humidity, and the air smelled stale, like rust and damp stone.
The enforcers flanking her still wore their uniforms, stiff and proper despite the heat. What, no casual Fridays? No wonder they were so grumpy.
As they marched past what barely passed as a cafeteria, Jinx wrinkled her nose. Small. Cramped. Not nearly enough space to start a decent food fight, let alone a proper prison riot. Apparently, Stillwater wasn't a fan of large gatherings and decided each cafeteria, shower, playground or whatever it was called, to be divided just because of that.
What a shame.
Still, it wasn’t all bad. Or so she told herself.
A quick scan of the prison yard told her everything she needed to know—this place was crawling with Silco’s men. A good number of them had wound up in these cells, some looking worse for wear, others just worn down, but unmistakably his…as banged up as they were for some reason.
She almost laughed at the expressions they threw her way, well those who are recent enough to know her—equal parts shock and awe, like they’d just seen a ghost strut through the gates. She could already hear the whispers forming, the desperate calculations behind wide eyes. Some of them, she knew, would jump at the chance to grovel at her feet if it meant a better shot at getting out. Maybe they thought she was here on some grand plan, that Silco had sent her in to shake things up, that this was all part of some larger scheme.
Let them hope.
Hope made people do interesting things. And besides, she’d always liked the idea of having her own little pack of goons. Silco wasn’t here to lecture her about control, about how things should be handled, about how she was too reckless, too wild, too… herself.
And really, could you blame a gal for trying?
She was just about to rub it in—throw a grin their way, maybe flip them off for good measure—when a sharp nudge from the enforcer at her side snapped her back to the present.
“Hey, fresh meat,” the guy drawled, his voice heavy with boredom. “You’re from the Undercity, aren’t you?”
Jinx definitely, absolutely refrained from rolling her eyes. Or groaning. She swore she did.
Instead, she let her hands do the talking, flipping him the bird with all the grace and elegance befitting a lady such as herself. And then, ever so politely, she corrected him.
“It’s Zaun, doofus. Not Undercity. But yeah, I’m from there. What’s it to ya?”
Now, she was fully expecting some half-assed rebuke, maybe an excuse to throw a punch, start some chaos—something to break the monotony before it settles in. But the response she got was… interesting.
The enforcer sighed, shaking his tiny little lightbulb of a head like he was already exhausted by the conversation. “Just trying to avoid clean-up duty. It’s standard procedure to warn you fissure folk about Pink.”
That got her attention. One eyebrow arched, her head tilting just enough to show her curiosity. She barely even stopped herself from laughing at the name alone.
“Who? No, no—don’t tell me! Let me guess.” She tapped a finger against her chin, mockingly thoughtful. “Big, buff dude with a mush-mush personality that snaps the second you breathe too hard? Or some tiny, rabid gremlin that just lives to start fights?”
To his credit, the enforcer almost looked amused.
“At this point?” the enforcer exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I’d prefer either of those.” He flicked a glance toward the far end of the prison, where the cells loomed like dark, waiting mouths. “Pink’s officially listed as inmate 516, and you as 413. You better count yourself damn lucky she’s in her cell right now. With the kind of looks you’re getting? If she was out in the yard, you’d be next on her list for a beating.”
Oh, very interesting.
Jinx grinned, tilting her head just enough to make it clear she was paying attention now. “Oh yeah? And what the fuck does she have against us? She some fancy Pilty or somethin’?” She waved a hand vaguely. “And Pink? Really? That’s the best y’all could come up with? The hell kinda name is that?”
The enforcer didn’t answer right away. He let the question hang, drawing out the silence like he wanted her to stew in it. Whether it was because he was just an asshole, some wannabe storyteller who liked suspense, or was still salty about being called doofus, she had no clue.
Eventually, though, he shrugged. “Dunno. She’s from the Undercity,” he said, as if that was all the explanation required.
Oh, she hated this guy. And kinda liked him too. Balls on him for that one.
“She’s one of yours,” he continued, either oblivious to or entirely enjoying her glare. “And the name? Self-explanatory once you see her. But hey, don’t take my word for it. Ask your fellow inmates.”
Jinx stayed quiet at that—not because she was shocked or concerned or any of that sentimental shit, but because this just got interesting.
A fellow Zaunite, huh? One that terrorized other Zaunites instead of sticking with them? What kind of dumbass play was that?
Oh, she’d figure it out. Personally.
Maybe she’d kick her ass outright, maybe she’d make her life a slow-burning hell, or maybe—just maybe—she’d make use of her. She wasn’t picky. Either way, she wasn’t about to go around asking nobodies for gossip. That wasn’t how she worked.
She’d much rather see the big bad for herself.
Her train of thought was interrupted when Enforcer Lightbulb came to a sudden stop. Another enforcer, some forgettable extra in this thrilling little drama, handed him a slip of paper.
Instead of moving along like a normal person, he opened it right then and there. Because of course he did. Gotta milk the moment. Gotta let her wait.
Jinx sighed theatrically, rocking on her heels. “You wanna take your sweet time with that, or should I start writing my own prison memoirs? Speaking of, where can I get papers and ink? Or just ink really, I'm not picky about canvases.”
She expected some half-assed response, maybe a grunt or a glare, but instead, his brows lifted slightly. A low whistle followed.
“Well, ain’t that somethin’,” he murmured.
Jinx frowned. “What?” she did not like his tone, not one bit.
He folded the paper neatly, like it hadn’t just thrown her into some fresh bullshit (or so she thinks) , and smirked. “Guess you won’t have to ask about her, fresh meat.” He gestured ahead. “Your cell’s right in front of hers.”
Jinx blinked.
Well, fuck.
That… was fast.
Too fast.
Either someone already had it out for her and wanted to see her screwed over, or someone wanted to see what would happen if the two of them were in close proximity.
Was it bad luck? Good luck? A weird cosmic joke?
Jury was still out.
But, well… she did want to see Pink for herself.
Jinx smirked as she was ushered forward, her boots clinking against the cold floor as they neared the open cell waiting for her.
“Hooray.” Jinx muttered it dryly, but her expression refused to betray a shred of unease. She wouldn’t give Lightbulb the satisfaction. Hell, there was no unease—why should there be?
Her entrance into the cell was… anticlimactic. No dramatic push, no taunting remark. Just a dull clang of the gate shutting behind her, the mechanical bite of the lock snapping into place, and the sound of retreating boots as Lightbulb strolled off, tossing a lazy “Behave.” over his shoulder.
Yeah, yeah, whatever.
She turned on her heel, hands stuffed into her pockets, and took a better look around.
The place was bare-bones. Not that she’d expected a cushy mattress or some fancy Piltover fuck you of a chandelier, but still. It was cold, the kind of cold that settled into concrete and didn’t leave. The kind that clung to the skin and refused to be shaken off. The walls were bare, featureless save for whatever grime had built up over the years.
And dark.
Not pitch black—some miserable excuse for light managed to filter in from the corridor—but it was dim enough that she had to blink a few times to adjust. Apparently, working lights inside the cells weren’t considered a worthy investment.
Smart, though. She would’ve broken the bulbs first chance she got and used the glass for fun.
But enough about that.
Jinx cracked her neck, then lazily pivoted toward the bars, her gaze drifting to the cell directly across from her. The one they had so graciously assigned her to be neighbors with.
The big bad. The Pink menace.
Jinx wrinkled her nose. “Sooo, this is where the infamous Pink is kept?” She dragged her fingers along the bars, tilting her head with exaggerated scrutiny. “Ugh, never mind—horrible name.” She let her grin stretch wide, leaning against the bars like she owned the place. “But anyway! Back to what I was saying—this is where the most terrifying inmate of Stillwater is holed up? This little box? Kinda mundane, don’t you think?”
Silence.
Then—an annoyed grunt.
Jinx perked up. Ooh, a sign of life!
But that was it. Back to nothing.
“Rude one, huh? Or are you playin’ the whole badass who speaks only when necessary thing?”
Still, nothing.
Jinx sighed, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Oh, come on! I gotta get at least a couple of words from the lady who beat the shit outta my guys. I mean, have you seen them? They look—”
“You work for Silco, then?”
The voice cut through the space between them like a knife.
Jinx went still.
Not visibly. Not to the outside world. But something inside her froze, muscles locking, throat tightening, every nerve winding itself into a sudden, gut-clenching knot.
That voice.
It was impossible.
She heard movement—the shifting of a mattress, then slow, deliberate footsteps, heavy against the concrete.
Jinx barely registered them.
No. No, no, no, no, no.
Her mind was playing tricks on her. It had to be. It had to be.
People didn’t come back. People didn’t crawl out of graves and land themselves in Stillwater of all places.
She kept silent, watching, waiting, bracing—
And then the figure stepped into the dim light.
Jinx’s breath hitched.
Her heart didn’t just skip—it lurched, like it had been ripped out and thrown somewhere far, far away.
Pink hair.
Not just any pink. That pink. The pink she remembered from years past, vibrant even under the murky Stillwater gloom.
Powder-blue eyes.
The same eyes that had haunted her for years, waking her from restless nights, pulling her back into memories she couldn’t escape.
And—
Jinx didn’t even need to see the rest. Didn’t need to confirm what she already knew.
Because there, stark against her cheek, etched into her skin, was the name.
Vi.
The world lurched.
Rushed forward, then stopped, frozen in that single, suffocating moment.
Jinx’s voice barely even made it out.
A whisper. A breath. A disbelief she couldn’t swallow down.
“Vi?"