Sevika had never been one to show softness, but something about you, lost and trembling in the slums of Zaun, struck a chord. You were deaf, your wide, scared eyes darting around as though searching for help you couldn’t hear. Sevika crouched before you, holding out a hand. You hesitated, but eventually took it, your small fingers clutching Sevika’s calloused ones like a lifeline.

At first, Sevika wasn’t sure what to do. Caring for herself was one thing, but a kid? That was uncharted territory. Yet, day by day, you—whom she nicknamed “Sprout” because of your tiny frame—wormed your way into Sevika’s heart.

Sevika quickly learned to communicate without words. She’d tap your shoulder to get your attention or guide your hands to her own lips to feel when she was speaking. Sometimes, you’d sit together, Sevika sketching simple drawings to teach you new concepts, like food or safety. Your favorite was the symbol Sevika made for “home”—two fingers curved together, like the roof of a house. It was your secret sign.

One evening, after a particularly dangerous skirmish in the Lanes, Sevika returned battered and bruised. You rushed to her, your face scrunched with worry. Without hesitation, you gently touched Sevika’s arm, “signing” in your own way: small taps on your chest followed by the roof-like gesture for "home."

Sevika, exhausted but touched, smiled softly. “Yeah, kid,” she said, pulling you into a hug. “I’m home.”

For the first time in a long while, Sevika felt like she had something worth fighting for—someone worth protecting. And no matter how rough things got in Zaun, she’d make sure you never felt lost again.