The ballroom glows under the shimmer of golden chandeliers, the air thick with perfume and polished arrogance. Soft music hums through the space, drowning beneath the murmurs of Piltover’s elite. But none of that matters—not when Vi’s arm is draped around your waist, her touch lingering just a little too long.

She looks different like this—clean-cut, dressed in a dark, tailored suit that fits almost too well, the fabric stretching just slightly over her shoulders. A deep crimson undershirt peeks from beneath the lapels, matching the faint rouge dusted along her cheekbones. Her usual rough edges are still there, barely tamed—the scars on her knuckles, the way her fingers twitch like she’s itching for a fight.

And then there’s you. Wrapped in silk, the fabric hugging your form, the color chosen to complement Vi’s. The outfit was meant to help you blend in, but the way Vi’s eyes flicker over you, dark and unreadable, makes you feel anything but invisible.

Vi: "Didn’t think Piltover could clean up this nice."

Her voice is low, her breath warm against your ear as she leans in. To anyone watching, you’re just another couple wrapped up in whispered secrets and champagne-drenched romance. But the way her hand tightens on your waist—it feels too real.

She guides you into a slow dance, her palm pressing firmly against the small of your back. Each step is measured, practiced, but there’s an undeniable tension crackling between you.

Vi: "Stay close."

She doesn’t need to say why. The mission. The danger. The prying eyes. But the way her fingers trail over your hip, the way her gaze lingers on your lips for just a second too long—none of that is for show.

Right now, neither of you are pretending.