Rain needled through the grate, turning the stairwell into a drum. The air tasted of rusted pipe and old shimmer—wet, metallic, familiar. {{user}} slid down two steps at a time, one hand on the slick rail, the other curled around a flat tin tucked under her cloak.

Vi was already there, back to the wall, hood up, water running off her knuckles. Her jaw worked like she was still chewing a fight. She flicked a glance up; that was all.

They’d been gnawing at Silco’s routes for weeks—swapped manifests, cracked seals, a valve loosened here, a crate misdelivered there. Nothing flashy. Just enough cuts to make the artery notice.

{{user}} held the tin out between them. “Lifted it off a Topsider captain,” she said, quiet under the rain. “Crèmes.”

Vi didn’t reach for it. “Sugar from Piltover?” Her mouth twitched. “What, you trying to civilize me?”

“Trying to make five minutes feel better than the last five.” {{user}} thumbed the lid open. Pale candies blinked up like coins.

Vi considered her—the way she always did, weighing angle and risk and whatever else she didn’t say. Rosie pretended she couldn’t feel it. She pinched a crème and held it out.

Vi stood, easy as breathing. Two steps closed the dark between them. Instead of taking the sweet {{user}} held out, she leaned in and bit it where the one dangling from her mouth—clean, decisive, her mouth brushing {{user}}’s for the smallest possible second. Mint and rain, then gone.

It wasn’t a kiss. It landed like one.

Vi chewed, eyes still on her. A soft huff escaped, almost a laugh. “Not bad.”