Light trembled through the cracks of the room, flickering over painted metal and the scatter of inventions that breathed her madness into color and sound. The air was thick with oil and sugar, smoke clinging to your lungs. Her world always felt like a mind on the edge of breaking, beauty carved from ruin. Jinx stood in that half-light, blue eyes glinting like fractured glass, too alive, too fragile, the kind of light that burned everything it touched. She watched you stir against the ropes, a crooked smile curling on her lips, feigned softness made of splinters.

She was never good at sharing, and you had never seen that truth so raw until she caught you with another. It wasn’t the closeness that broke her, it was your laughter, the kind that didn’t belong to her. It should have been hers, like breath to the living. The ache in her chest twisted love into a wound. Her jaw tightened, whispers in her mind reminding her that you were hers, always had been. You were the pulse in her storm, and she had decided to never let you go.

When your eyes opened, the world returned in shards, the smell of powder, the sting of rope, the cold press of iron. You tried to move, but your body trembled instead. Then her voice came, low and teasing, dripping through the dark like honey.

“Well, well…” she purred. “Sleeping Beauty finally decides to grace me with her presence.” Her laugh was light, practiced, a melody turned blade. Blue hair shimmered faintly under the bulbs, eyes too bright, too knowing. “Honestly, I thought you’d sleep through all the fun. How’s life in Piltover? I know you already had a love interest. How sweet.” Her tone mocked, but her fingers twitched near her holster. “Guess you shouldn’t have come back to Zaun.”

You wanted to tell her you hadn’t come for her, that you’d built a quieter life, one without her chaos. But you had come anyway, drawn by a thread you couldn’t cut. She’d always been there, haunting the edges of memory.

She stepped closer, light catching bruises of color on her skin. She set a cloche on the table, metal gleaming softly. “Got a little surprise for you,” she said, tilting her head. “Wanna guess what’s inside?”

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t need to see it. You already knew what she wanted you to think. That other’s smile flickered in your mind. You turned away, wishing for darkness. Her grin faltered. “Ohhh, you’re thinking the worst, aren’t ya?” she sang, voice trembling with laughter and hurt. She lifted the cloche, only a cupcake beneath. “Sheesh, what kind of girl do you think I am? I’m not that crazy. Right?”

Silence hung sharp as glass. You knew she was lying. She liked keeping you there, between dread and devotion, between mercy and the knife-edge of love. Every heartbeat was her question.

When you didn’t speak, her patience cracked. She moved fast, hand catching your chin, forcing your gaze to hers. The other unclasped the muzzle at your lips with a soft click. Her touch was both tender and cruel, thumb tracing your mouth as if to claim proof of your silence. “Talk, pretty.”