Archive of Our Own

Vander was going to be pissed.

Maybe for ten minutes. Then he’d let out one of those heavy sighs and say something like, "At least you’re okay kiddo," or, "At least you didn’t drag anyone else into your mess," followed by a reluctant, "That’s a decent haul," while trying not to look impressed.

Okay, maybe Vi was a little delusional.

Vander hated when she crossed the bridge into Piltover. Too dangerous, he said. The guards were twitchy, itchy-fingered, and shot first, asked questions never. It didn’t matter if you were a kid or carrying nothing but a bag of bread—if you looked like you belonged in Zaun, you were a threat. Even Vander barely ventured out of the Undercity anymore. But when he did, it was for a reason. A good one.

Hunger didn’t care about reasons. Going to bed hungry had become a nightly ritual, a grim lullaby. Vi claimed she wasn’t hungry, always. Lied through her teeth about scoring some amazing haul mid-run, tossing out half-truths about bartering with smugglers or grabbing leftovers from an abandoned market. She’d make it sound exciting. Thrilling. Brag about some made-up story where she tasted the best ham of her life, just to make Powder pout, accusing her of not sharing. So she would get the last bite of a shared meal.

Mylo had always looked like a skeleton with sass. Ekko was thin, but scrappy—fine for now. But Powder... Powder looked like a stiff breeze might shatter her. Pale skin. Big eyes. Circles under them no kid should have.

No matter how much Vi pretended to be chill, she couldn’t unsee the signs. The way her sister’s skin clung too tight to her bones. The quiet wheeze in her chest. That terrifying, gnawing fear that one day Powder would get sick and wouldn’t come back from it. Vi had seen it before. Way too many times. Pale kids. Coughing kids. Fading kids. Then, another name whispered like a ghost.

No way in hell she’d let that happen to her little sister.

So, when night fell, she slipped out of bed, grabbed the bag she’d hidden, and disappeared through the window.

She didn’t have a perfect plan. Just enough of one to know where to start.

Everyone had been talking about the Kiramman gala. The food. The waste. The elite nibbling on canapés and tossing the rest while kids choked on smog and hunger. The enforcers would be out, guarding the estate, eyes on potential threats.

Perfect time to hit the empty houses.

Vi stuck to the shadows. Took the long way around to avoid enforcer patrols or bored thugs, every step a dance with darkness. Slipped through the cracks like a ghost, careful to let her silhouette vanish between the lamplight pools.

Piltover streets were too clean. Too sterile. Too quiet. The kind of silence that made her heartbeat sound like a drum, echoing in her ears like a warning. It wasn’t natural, like someone had scrubbed the soul out of the place with soap and money.

She crouched low, hood pulled tight over her face, watching two enforcers stroll past. Their armor gleamed, their voices casual, chatting about some noble’s latest scandal like it was neighborhood gossip.

Disgusting.

These were the same people who'd shoot a Zaunite in the back for carrying the wrong face, then go sip wine and cackle over cheese plates. Nothing about them was noble. Just dogs on a leash, patrolling a gilded cage.

Whatever. Let them talk.

Made them predictable. Easier to avoid.

Roof travel was out. Too quiet up there. Too echoey. One wrong step and she'd sound like a sledgehammer dropped in a museum. Night required softer tactics—low ground, low profile, all instinct and caution.

She followed the flow of wealth. Bigger houses, more fences, taller hedges. The deeper she went, the more space people put between each other. The richer they were, the more isolation they bought. The message was clear: here, there was something worth stealing. Something they were afraid to lose.

Vi scanned the street. Looked for signs: no lights on. No movement inside. No shadows flickering behind curtains. Drapes drawn tight. No sounds. No kids crying. No clatter of dishes. Just dead silence.

She knew the drill. Empty meant vulnerable. Vulnerable meant opportunity. And tonight, that was exactly what she was hunting.

Eventually, she found it. A modest mansion by Piltover standards—still bigger than anything in Zaun. Iron fence lined with thorny hedges, a sleepy guard slouched at the front gate, eyes half-lidded, half-useless. Most importantly, an open window on the second floor, curtains swaying in the warm breeze.

Perfect.

She climbed the fence easy, boots barely making a sound as they hit the grass. She landed with a crouch, quickly sprinting to the side of the house where the stone wall greeted her with cold indifference. Like it knew she wasn’t supposed to be there. Every brick scraped her fingers raw. No clean handholds, just the kind of challenge she liked best. Pain was familiar. Grit made her grin. Inch by inch, like she’d done a hundred times before. Not graceful. Not clean. But fast.

The window opened wider with a gentle nudge.

Empty bedroom with a massive bed. Sheets tucked in like the occupant hadn’t planned on coming back anytime soon. There wasn’t even a dent in the pillow. Everything was neat, clean, undisturbed. Not a wrinkle in sight. The kind of place that screamed money and control.

Too clean. Too cold. But to Vi? It screamed opportunity.

With a triumphant smirk, she hauled herself into the room and pushed the window panes shut, careful not to make too much noise that might catch the guard's attention outside — though frankly, she doubted he was still conscious.

Shiny things sparkled from the vanity. Candlesticks, ornate mirrors, chunky jewelry. Gaudy as hell. Obvious wealth. Zero taste.

Sshe shrugged off her bag, letting it drop to the floor with a dull thud, and strode toward the vanity. The jewelry left scattered across it was a chaotic mess of chunky rings, heavy necklaces, and gaudy, overworked brooches. Clearly, the taste of an aging noble with zero interest in subtlety.

Lucky for her.

Vi grinned and started dumping everything into her bag. The glee would come later. First, ransack the place. Then disappear without a trace.

No time to admire. Just grab and go.

The thought of Powder's beaming face distracted her just enough to slow her reaction time.

Light spilled in, flooding the room like it had something to prove. In the mirror’s surface, a silhouette took shape. Small. Upright. Breathing a gasp.

Shit.

Vi spun, the last item still clutched in her hand—an ornate mirror she lifted reflexively like a weapon.

In the doorway stood a girl, maybe her age. Blue eyes blown wide, delicate frame, fine features, dressed like a porcelain doll. Soft lines, soft skin, everything about her screaming, breakable.

Vi cursed under her breath, sizing her up. Easy enough to take down. One clean hit.

The girl spoke, voice sharp with panic and command:

"Who are you? What are you doing here, Bullet?!"

Bullet?

Vi blinked, momentarily thrown.

She set the mirror down slowly, stepping forward, gaze already calculating where to strike to drop this rich brat before she could scream and bring down the house. God, please let her parents not be home.

"What is that—Piltover's freshest insult?"

But the girl didn’t flinch.

The panic didn’t crack into a scream or dissolve into tears. No, it sharpened. Turned ice cold. Those wide eyes narrowed.

“No,” she said, voice flat and cutting. “It’s the name of my dog.”

Vi didn’t even register the noise until it was too late.

Click-clack. Claws. Fast.

Marble floor. No carpet to muffle it. Just that terrifying rhythm that said something big is coming.

Her smile faltered. Great. Probably some slobbery fluffball. One kick would send it flying.

"What, and your cat's called Gun?"

But then it came into view.

And her stomach dropped straight to hell.

No fluff. No bows. Just lean muscle, black fur, eyes like empty pits. It moved with surgical calm, each step calculated and too damn quiet. Vi had seen monsters in Zaun—real ones—but this thing? This was something else.

It didn’t bark.

Didn’t growl.

Didn’t need to.

Vi stood frozen, every part of her screaming RUN, but there was nowhere to go. Her back to a wall, hands still raised. A half-laugh caught in her throat.

“Shit—Down! Sit! Whatever your code word is, call it off!”

She barely heard the girl whisper something—a word that hissed off her tongue like poison. A single syllable.

The dog moved like a shadow stitched from sinew and death. All precision. All silence.

A blur of sleek fur and bared teeth. Faster than anything that size had any right to be.

Vi flinched hard, arms up, waiting for the crash, the pain, the tearing. Her heart slammed against her ribs, her lungs locked. All she could think was Powder. That skinny hug last night. Vander’s warnings. Stay smart. Stay safe. And Vi, of course, ignoring all of it.

All for a few damn trinkets.

All for dinner on the table.

So this was it? Torn to shreds in a rich girl's bedroom, death by fucking purebred, and all because she wanted her sister to eat.

But the hit never came.

Nothing.

No sharp fangs sinking into her flesh. No hot weight of a beast knocking her to the floor. Just the awful silence stretching thin. Suspended in the space between a heartbeat and a scream.

“Don’t move,” the girl said, calm again. Too calm. “He won’t hurt you, unless you give him a reason.”

Vi’s arms lowered slowly, like lifting them again might trigger a command. Her breath came ragged, uneven. The dog—a Doberman, sleek black and rust, a creature carved from muscle and menace—sat mere inches from her. Eyes locked to hers. Mouth closed. No panting. Just stillness. Readiness.

A loaded weapon wrapped in skin and silence, waiting for a single syllable to turn her into scraps.

She took a shaky breath and stepped back, not turning, not taking her eyes off it.

This was hell.

Not just the dog. Not just the threat of blood. But her.

That girl.

That delicate, highborn wisp standing in the doorway like she was owed the universe and its moon. She hadn’t even moved. Hadn’t lifted a finger. Her dog did all the work. Probably always had. Probably always would.

And then she opened her perfect little mouth again.

“And no,” she said, smooth and cold like polished steel. “The other one is named Trigger.”

Vi almost laughed. It came out more like a wheeze.

Fucking of course.

Bullet and Trigger. Why not a third named Reload.

Two dogs.

Two dogs trained to kill on command.

She was well and truly screwed. Beyond hope. Beyond dumb luck. Beyond clever escapes.

Vi’s gaze flicked back to the dog, still watching. Its collar caught the light. Gold crest. Familiar shape.

Recognition stabbed her clean through.

No.

That wasn’t just some pampered watchdog.

That was a Kiramman crest.

Vi’s blood went cold. Her stomach flipped. She lifted her eyes—slowly, this time—to take in the girl again.

And there it was.

The hair, that cobalt dark blue with its highborn shine. The eyes—icy, pale, and annoyingly steady. That expression like nothing in the world had ever told her no.

“You’re Caitlyn Kiramman,” Vi breathed, more accusation than question.

She was Piltover royalty.

No. Fucking. Way.

The princess didn’t deny it. Just nodded. Like it was nothing. Like her name wasn’t a loaded gun in itself. And worse—she started scanning Vi like a report. Pausing on her torn clothes, the half-healed wounds taped with whatever scrap she’d found, then over to the open sack by the vanity, spilling with glittering stolen proof.

“You’re not here to kidnap me,” she said, flat and unaffected, as if she were checking the weather.

Detective fucking genius over here. Yeah, great work, Sherlock. Clocked the sack. Counted how many people came through the window. One desperate idiot. Not a team. Not an ambush.

Even if Vi managed to deck the heiress hard enough to send her flying across the room—and honestly, she could—she couldn’t exactly make a run for it with the girl slung over her shoulder like a sack of rice with Hellhound #1 parked at the exit.

She rolled her eyes, fear giving way to a burn far more familiar and far more manageable: exasperation.

"Wow. Sharp as a tack, aren’t you?"

Caitlyn’s brows creased, bristling at the insult, clearly unused to losing control of a situation. Guess it wasn’t every day the brat found herself cornered with a gutter-rat’s fate in her delicate hands — or more precisely, in the fangs of her designer-bred attack dog.

And the best part?

They’d tried to protect her.

Vi could almost guess it now: Too dangerous at the gala, too many eyes, too many threats from below. All those whispers behind expensive fans. Keep the heir hidden. Safe. Tucked away in some fancy little dollhouse with better locks and boring walls.

Yeah. Real safe.

And bam—first room raided, her bedroom. Hilarious.

Vi turned back to the dog, mustering every ounce of fake authority she could dig up from her boots.

“Down! Go away!”

Predictably, nothing happened.

Like it was carved from shadow and steel. Its gaze didn’t even acknowledge her voice.

But Caitlyn did.

"He won’t listen to you," she said coolly, one brow raised, voice laced with that soft-spoken condescension reserved for people who’d never once fought for their survival.

Vi’s sneer returned full force. No shit. What, was the dog deaf? Or just as snobby as its owner?

"Why? 'Cause I didn’t pop out of the womb with a silver spoon up my ass?"

Caitlyn raised a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching like she might smile if Vi weren’t beneath her notice. Like this was all just slightly tiresome.

Vi’s stomach curled.

She leaned forward, rage in her chest. Like this whole room, this girl, this dog—every part of it was pressing down on her, smothering her with their quiet judgment.

The hellhound didn’t back off. She could feel its breath now, the sharp bones of its snout barely brushing her skin. Like death on a leash, waiting.

Maybe she imagined the growl. Maybe not.

"Back off!" she snapped—though she was the one stepping back.

Instinct knew what her pride refused to admit.

That helplessness made her sick.

Up close, the Doberman was even worse. All sinew and silence and teeth sharpened by old money. Vi eyed its jaw—tight, muscular, twitching like it was bored waiting for the go-ahead to maul her. Sure, she could probably crack that jaw with one solid hit. She’d broken tougher. Bone’s just bone.

But those teeth?

Those weren’t fists. Those didn’t leave bruises she could walk off.

Getting shredded, bleeding out, climbing a damn fence while leaking red all over Piltover’s perfect lawns? Not on the to-do list.

But she could handle it.

Vi could handle anything.

That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was her.

That twig of a girl standing there like she ran the world, wrapped in silk and smugness. Like she’d never gone to bed hungry, never felt cold down to her bones, never had to steal to keep someone else alive.

With legs so delicate they looked like they might snap just from bearing her own damn weight. Vi could take her in both hands and break her in the middle without even trying.

It was offensive, honestly—having all that food, all that comfort, and doing nothing with it but growing bones wrapped in silk.

Those delicate hands had never worked a day, never lifted in defense, never bled for anyone but herself. And those ice-chip eyes? They wouldn’t be so calm without the monster standing guard in front of her, waiting to tear Vi apart like some goddamn heirloom security system.

Vi’s fists clenched so hard her knuckles popped.

Only thing keeping her from wiping that pristine little face across the wall was the thought of her family going hungry if she got locked up.

But god, how she wanted to wreck that perfect face.

Leave a mark.

A real one.

"No. He’s trained in High Ionian. He doesn’t take orders barked in street slang."

Of course. Because common sense was too low class. Heaven forbid their murder mutts respond to anything short of a lullaby in ancient poetry.

Vi’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Empathy? Unnecessary. And her?

The world would spin just fine without one more pampered Piltover bitch in it.

Something snapped.

She didn’t plan it. Didn’t think. Just moved.

Her knee shot up toward the dog’s jaw, not to win, just to redirect. Just to get it off her, to buy one second, one breath. All she needed was a clean shot at the girl. Just one swing. One second of equal footing.

Let those polished tiles taste blood.

Let the heiress feel something real for once in her life.

But the dog was faster.

It flowed like death between her legs. Vi felt the air shift, hot breath grazing her calf—then snap.
Not pain.

Not yet.

Just the sound.

Teeth closing a breath away from her skin. Close enough to feel the heat of them, to feel the ghost of what could’ve been tendon, skin, bone.

A beat of silence that rang louder than screams.

But nothing hit. No tearing. No pain.

Vi’s body was locked up tight, breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat.

Then she saw her.

Caitlyn. Not yelling. Not smug. Not even moving.

Just standing there, stiff, not from pride, but from something more human. Her hands were clenched, shoulders sharp with tension, eyes wide and locked not on Vi, but—Vi followed her line of sight—on her own leg.

Caitlyn was staring at the place where the dog should’ve made contact.

Vi blinked, mind finally catching up with what the adrenaline had buried.

Her pants were untouched. Smooth. No tear. No blood soaking through the fabric.

The dog hadn’t held back.

Caitlyn had called him off.

She must’ve said something, some word sharp enough to cut through instinct and training. A sound Vi hadn’t registered at all, buried under the chaos of motion and breath and sheer survival.

But that one word had stopped it.

Stopped him.

And now—now Caitlyn was looking at her. No longer detached, no longer cold, but burning. Not the cool disdain Vi had come to expect from people like her. Not the empty judgment of someone observing a lower lifeform.

There was heat in her gaze now. Emotion, raw and unfiltered, fighting its way past years of elite schooling and etiquette and whatever other garbage she’d been taught to keep her face blank.

And she was pissed.

“He would’ve bitten you!” she snapped, the words lashing out before she could smooth them over.

Her voice cracked—just a little—but in that sound, Vi didn’t hear condescension. She heard fear.

And not fear for herself.

Fear for Vi.

It was brief. Gone in a second. Caitlyn swallowed whatever had surfaced, straightened her back, and pulled the steel back into her spine like it had never left. The mask came down fast and clean.

“Fortunately,” she said, voice clipped and sharp again, “he follows orders better than you do.”

And just like that, the moment passed. Dignity reassembled. Distance restored.

Vi stared at her, heart still jackhammering, pulse in her throat. The silence stretched, heavy with everything that didn’t just happen.

But Vi still felt it. That one heartbeat of something not hatred. Not control. Not pity.

Something else.

Vi’s shock didn’t die but burned up in a flashfire, scorched clean by the surge of rage that followed. Her heart hadn’t even settled back into rhythm before that familiar heat boiled up inside her chest, twisting low and sharp in her gut like a blade she welcomed. One second she’d been frozen, breathing in the echo of the dog’s breath, staring at a girl who’d just called off death like it was no big deal, and the next, she was seething.

That smug calm. That spoiled control. That rich little voice acting like this was just a misunderstanding—like Vi was some dumb animal who didn’t know the rules.

She knew the rules. She just didn’t give a shit about them.

Her fists clenched again, nails biting into her palms.

Fresh fury, hot and bitter, washed out everything else. The fear, the tension, the almost—gone.

"This fun for you? Just stand there while your mutt does the dirty work?"

Her lip curled. She didn’t wait for an answer.

“Let me guess—you like watching. That it?”

Caitlyn’s brows pulled together, irritation flickering like a crack in her otherwise perfect porcelain composure. It was subtle—just a pinch between those finely shaped brows—but Vi caught it. That tiny tell, that twitch of emotion, was worth more than a scream. It meant the princess didn’t like being spoken to like anyone else. Didn’t like being stripped of control in her own little castle. The shift in her face said it all: this wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Not with a Zaunite in the room. Not with someone muddying her polished world. And still, there she stood, trying to piece back together her authority like broken glass, the edges cutting even as she reached for them.

Caitlyn straightened her spine just a touch, chin tilting up like that made her immune. “I told you he’s trained to immobilize, not harm,” she said, voice frosty but thinner now—like a blade honed to the point of snapping. “That distinction clearly escapes you.”

Vi laughed, bitter and sharp, the sound more bark than humor, teeth bared in a grin that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” she said, nothing about it was playful. “Immobilize. Neutralize. Subdue. Real clean words for someone who’s never had to look messy consequences in the face.”

She leaned just close enough to let her presence scrape.

"So this is it? Your shiny new weapon? ” She jerked her chin toward the dog. “Just set a couple of these beasts loose on our streets and voilà—no muss, no fuss, no blood on those soft little hands of yours."

Caitlyn straightened like she’d been slapped, scandal flaring in her face. Her jaw twitched, the fine lines of control faltering for a heartbeat. Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, as if part of her wanted to grab something—her dignity, maybe. Her dog’s leash. Vi’s throat.

But she didn’t step back. Wouldn’t dare. Wouldn’t give Vi the satisfaction of seeing her flinch in her own gilded fortress.

“Absolutely not!” she snapped, sharp enough to cut. “They’re not weapons!”

Too fast.

Too loud.

Vi gave her a look so flat it could’ve leveled buildings. Stone had more warmth.

Her monster wasn’t a weapon, but its teeth would tear the flesh from her leg more easily than a knife blade. It held her still, and her only chance of survival depended on her obedience. Or his.

“Right. Just machines with teeth and collars. The Piltover way.”

Her voice dropped into something molten and dangerous, slow as a fuse, bitter as blood in the mouth.

“Tell me,” she said, letting the words hit harder than any punch. “Is he worth more than my life?”

And that landed.

Hard.

Caitlyn blinked like she’d been yanked out of a dream, the mask cracking for just a moment. Her eyes darted to the dog, still a statue of obedience and menace. Then to Vi—breath ragged, stance tight, eyes alight with fury and something far older: betrayal. And finally, Caitlyn looked down at the fabric of the pants leg, that had been just a breath away from being shredded. A little more force, a fraction slower on her part, and it would’ve been blood—not air—spilling onto the polished floor.

Her throat worked like she’d forgotten how to swallow.

Because they both knew.

It had been close.

Too close.

Her voice, when it came, was small. Fragile. Not the polished steel from before.

"No, I—I didn’t… That’s not what this is."

But even she didn’t sound convinced. Not when the truth had left its mark in near-missing teeth and the echo of something feral barely held back.

As the brat fumbled through the slow, dawning horror that her sleek, well-trained hellhound wasn’t just a glorified accessory, Vi was chewing her rage like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Caitlyn stood there, neck-deep in denial, trying to tape together the shattered pieces of her worldview with trembling hands and Piltover pride. Maybe that would’ve been cute—watching her brain short-circuit as reality clawed its way in—if she didn’t look so damn determined to hold on to the fantasy where she still had the moral high ground. Like she could believe in law and order while casually pointing loaded weapons at people just trying to make it through the goddamn week.

Vi’s voice slipped out before she even felt it rising.

Low. Sharp. Merciless.

“Could’ve fooled me,” she said, every word a knife. “If he’d taken a chunk out of my leg, would that still ‘not be what this is’?”

Her gaze dropped, settling on the dog. Still perfectly still. Watching her like it wasn’t finished. Like it was just waiting for another mistake. Like it wanted her to try something.

Vi met those cold, intelligent eyes for a beat. The air between them felt like glass. One wrong move, and it’d shatter into violence.

Then her eyes flicked to the window.

Still closed. Her only way out.

She counted the steps. Judged the height. The angle. The odds.

She could make it. Probably. Maybe. If she didn’t trip. If the dog didn’t lunge. If the glass didn’t catch her wrong.

Hell of a list of “ifs.” But even that felt less brutal than ending up in Stillwater, where cells were the size of closets and mercy didn’t exist.

And even if she made it?

No bag. No goods. No food.

Powder stays hungry.

Every step, every risk she took outside Zaun—all of it undone by some porcelain princess who liked mutts better than people.

Fantastic.

Meanwhile, Caitlyn was spinning in her own private storm. Her eyes ping-ponged between Vi and the dog, her brain clearly fighting to connect dots that didn’t want to line up. She bit her lower lip—quick, nervous. Then immediately corrected, spine straightening, arms folding like a student posing for a portrait.

Vi saw the crack. That barely covered fear behind the performance of calm.

Then Caitlyn opened her mouth. Quiet. Stiff. Like she was trying to wrestle control back with words alone.

“I don’t even know who you are.”

That line reeked of dissonance, a feeble attempt to put distance between them.

Distance always made it easier for them. Easier to call it policy. Easier to call it justice.

But Vi heard it for what it was.

Deflection.

She saw the hesitation, too. The split-second Caitlyn had frozen earlier, breath caught, control slipping between her fingers like dry sand.

That mattered.

It wasn’t a win. Not really. Not yet.

But it meant the girl hadn’t sicced the mutt on her the second Vi’s boot hit the carpet. She hadn’t screamed for guards, hadn’t pulled some emergency string hidden in the furniture. And that was… something.

Vi tucked it away. Just in case.

Still, she had to be smarter. Play it better. Powder didn’t eat if Vi screwed this up. She didn’t get second chances. No do-overs in Zaun.

The girl was still fumbling. Still trying to decide if Vi was a threat, a case study, or a particularly mouthy rat in the walls.

And this, even after Vi had nearly clocked her ten seconds ago.

Stupid.

But usable.

Vi pulled herself down from the ledge of her fury like rappelling off a burning building. Gotta keep the flames from swallowing the whole plan.

Her mouth didn’t get the memo.

Her next words came coated in venom, too quick, too sharp, too Vi.

“Oh, you’re right,” she said, voice sweet like a rusty blade. “Let’s fix that—come to dinner tomorrow. Bring your Killer, or your Poison, or whatever his name is. My folks’ll love him.”

Shit. She really had to learn when to shut the hell up.

She’d done it again.

Lit the fuse with her dumbass mouth.

Because yeah, her half-formed escape plan had banked on pity. On looking small. Not like a threat—just like a desperate nobody who could be dismissed, maybe even spared.

Not like this.

Not with sarcasm dripping off her tongue and enough venom to burn bridges before they were even built.

And now?

Now she stood there, weight shifting, heart hammering, waiting for the girl to decide she was done pretending to be merciful.

Because it was the moment she would pay for her mouth—again.

She braced herself for the backlash.

But Caitlyn said nothing.

Wait—was she actually thinking about it?

Vi stared, caught somewhere between panic and disbelief

"My mother would never allow it," Caitlyn said at last, quiet. Almost… regretful.

Vi blinked. Was she serious? Her brain stalled—then barked a laugh. No way.

Piltover was insane. Absolutely, certifiably insane. Or maybe this one was just special.

“Seriously? That wasn’t—” Vi waved a hand, like she could shoo the conversation out the window. “Forget it.”

The fire in her chest dimmed to something bitter and low. Her throat felt tight. Her fists ached from how long she’d held them tense.

“Look,” she muttered, jaw clenched, “I’m sorry, alright? Can I go now? You won’t see me again.”

Caitlyn’s eyes narrowed.

And there it was. Back to square one. Vi wanted to gnaw her own knuckles in frustration.

She almost had an out !! And now the little princess was calculating again.

"What would you have done if I didn’t have the dog? Kill me?"

That was a good question. One Vi had already run through in her head. Twice.

She wasn’t a killer. Not tonight. She was just a half-starved rat looking for cheese.

"I just wanted food."

Maybe if she looked starved enough, she would trigger whatever savior complex was simmering under the heiress polished shell. She seemed like the kind that wanted a pat on the back for being merciful.

Vi hesitated, hated that she had to, but let it out anyway.

"My sister’s sick. Real sick. We haven’t eaten in two days."

And there it was. The truth, raw and ugly, hanging in the air like a pulled trigger. Caitlyn stared at her, eyes no longer glacier-cold but precise.

She was studying her.

Breaking her down like a puzzle, piece by desperate piece.

Like she needed to understand the shape of this before she could decide what to do with it.

Vi froze. Stillness had never been her strong suit—she was all motion, all muscle and mess. It made her a terrible liar, but she held it. Held her breath. Let her challenge live in her stare, while her body softened just enough to be unthreatening.

Then Caitlyn blinked, once, slowly. Decision made.

"Okay," she said, soft as a sigh.

Just that. No fanfare. No threats. No condescension.

Vi let out a shaky breath before she could stop it. Shoulders slumped. The fire in her chest dimmed, replaced by the cold weight of adrenaline fading. It wasn’t over. But the axe hadn’t dropped.

She still had a shot. She could make it home tonight. She could feed Powder. Maybe.

Caitlyn’s gaze dropped to the bulging sack of stolen jewelry. Vi followed it, heart sinking. Damn mutt had cost her a fortune. She’d been so close.

"Don’t take anything else. I’ll be back."

Vi blinked. Stunned.

Then came the first weird thing: Caitlyn whispered something low, barely audible, and the dog moved towards her. Relaxed.

His stride loosened, ears perked, tail wagging in slow, smug little sweeps like he'd just nailed his best performance. Prideful little bastard.

Caitlyn's eyes flicked toward him for just a second, and something in her face softened. Her hand moved—just a gliding gesture along the side of his neck, featherlight, ending near his pricked ears before falling away like it had never been there. A touch so discreet Vi might’ve missed it if she’d blinked. No command. No praise. Just a fleeting touch that said you did good, and a look that said you’re the only one in this whole damn room that made sense.

And for a moment—just a blink—Vi wasn’t looking at a future cop. Or a noble. Or a brat playing soldier.

She was looking at a girl grounded by her dog’s shadow.

Then came the second thing: Caitlyn turned, after one last wary glance Vi couldn’t read. No warning. No orders. No backup call. No polished threat wrapped in lawbook jargon. Just walked away.

The dog followed her like his kill switch had flipped off.

They were gone.

But the third thing? That was the kicker.

"Don’t take anything else."

Vi just stood there.

What the hell did that mean?

Was it a soft warning? A quiet mercy? A test? "You can keep what’s in the bag but don’t be greedy"? Or was it more like "I’ll bring you cheese rinds if you behave, little rat"?

Her pride flared hot in her chest, full of all the nasty comebacks she should’ve thrown while the girl was still in earshot. She should’ve left it. Dropped the bag. Walked out with nothing just to spit in the face of the whole damn system.

But food was food.

And Powder was waiting.

And Vi was so tired of feeling like the world only made sense when it was being cruel.

Maybe the Kiramman would come back with a pistol, and Vi would end the day munching on lead and regret.

She stood there. Stunned.

For a long time.

Then her brain snapped back online.

She lunged for the bag, arms scooping every last glittering scrap off the vanity like a manic raccoon. Candlesticks. Brooches. Hell, maybe even a paperweight if it looked pricey.

And now she was full-on sacking the place.

Hands moved faster than her thoughts. Drawers yanked open, vanity gutted, every shiny thing swept into the bag with the kind of fury that came from a lifetime of being told no. It wasn’t just hunger now—it was spite. It was thrill. It was fire under her fingernails.

Let the Piltie come back to an empty room.

She’d deserved it for trusting a Zaunite. The guilt nipped at her heels. Whispered about the hesitation, the softness, the almost kindness in Caitlyn’s voice. But Vi shoved it down, buried it under the thrum of escape.

Next stop: the closet.

Too many clothes. Too many sequins. Too many tags. None of it Caitlyn’s, not really. Just rented personalities for the rich to try on and discard. Vi pawed through them with a sneer, picked nothing. Waste of space. Waste of taste.

Then came escape prep: blankets flung through the window, mattress to soften the drop. She wrapped the loot like a damn caterpillar and lobbed it outside. A few muffled thumps. No alarms. Perfect.

Vi braced herself, one foot already out the window, fingers gripping the frame, when she heard them.

Footsteps.

Not boots. Not guards.

Soft.

Measured.

She froze.

Then turned.

And there she was.

Caitlyn. In the doorway. Alone.

Holding a bag.

Their eyes locked—both wide, caught mid-breath.

Startled.

Vi stared, half-dangling out the window like the punchline to a joke she didn’t understand.

What the hell was this girl doing?

Caitlyn was inside. A few meters into the room now, the door still open behind her.

Unharmed. Unprotected.

Weird trust move. Kinda dumb.

Vi watched her for a beat, heart still hammering from the near-escape. Her whole body buzzed with leftover adrenaline and disbelief.

Caitlyn had come back.

No soldiers. No cuffs. Just this. Just her. With food.

She was starting to understand this girl, and that was maybe the weirdest part.

The heiress hadn’t been broken in yet. She was still new, still too clean. Arrogant, sure. But not polished down into that brittle, lifeless shine the way most Pilties were. She hadn’t learned how to look away. Hadn’t stopped blinking.

Not yet.

Maybe there was still hope.

Vi stepped toward her, watched Caitlyn flinch just slightly. A flicker. But she held her ground.

She wouldn’t run. Wouldn’t call the dogs.

This was a test. For both of them.

So Vi took the bag. Fast. Out of habit more than threat—like snatching a win before the rules changed again. Wanted to gloat. Wanted to bite.

But the weight caught her off-guard.

It wasn’t light. Wasn’t full of scraps or dried-out pity food.

She looked inside.

Boxes, packed tight. Heavy. One cracked open, revealing cooked meat.

Vi stared at it, then up at Caitlyn.

"You didn’t bring scraps."

The Piltie had just cracked something wide open, and Vi didn’t know if she wanted to punch her for it or sit down and eat.

She tightened her grip on the bag.

Caitlyn met her eyes, her storm swirling only in the tiny flickers of movement behind them.

And for the first time, her reply didn’t feel like a line rehearsed for dinner parties. It felt… personal. Honest, even if the honesty was strange and laced with steel.

"My mother says scraps aren’t even for the dogs."

So Vi was at least dog-tier. Neat.

It was such a Caitlyn line. Icy. Self-serious. Too rich to hear itself properly. But under all that aristocratic sharpness, Vi heard what she wasn’t saying:

So you won’t get scraps either.

Because I chose not to insult you.

It was the girl’s version of generosity. Stiff. Off-key. But real.

A peace gesture. The kind of thing someone like Caitlyn probably thought was noble. That she probably struggled to say, even now. Her jaw was tight, her hands still at her sides, as if she’d needed to rehearse the sentence before delivering it.

Vi rolled her eyes anyway. Shoved down everything this girl made her feel—rage, confusion, awe. The want to slam her into a wall. The shock of surviving. The absurdity of leaving with two full bags.

It was easier to hate the girl when she was all clean hands and condescension. Easier to ignore her when she stood behind rules instead of stepping over them.

But Caitlyn had stepped in. Come back. With food. And no threats.

And Vi hated how much that mattered.

She paused at the sill. One leg already slung out. She could be gone in a heartbeat. Should be. The smart move was to vanish before this twisted scene got any more complicated.

But something kept her still for just a second longer.

Maybe she didn’t want to leave like a rat. Not just a rat.

So, before disappearing with the loot and the dinner, she tossed over her shoulder:

"Thanks for the grub."

Gone before Caitlyn could answer.