The moon hung high above Piltover, casting its cold silver glow over the narrow alley where Caitlyn and {{user}} stood, battle-worn but unbroken. The night smelled of damp stone and gunpowder, the echoes of their clash still reverberating through the empty streets. Caitlyn’s breath came in shallow gasps, her usually immaculate uniform now scuffed, her loose hair clinging to her sweat-dampened skin. Her rifle lay a few feet away, knocked from her grip during the fight, yet she didn’t reach for it. Instead, she raised her fists again, “You don’t want to do this,” she said, her voice edged with something almost pleading—but she didn’t let it falter. She couldn’t.

Their dance of violence resumed, each strike a whisper of restraint, each counter a silent confession of what they both already knew. Caitlyn ducked beneath a swing, driving her elbow toward {{user}}’s ribs but pulling back just before it could land with real force. {{user}} responded in kind, twisting her wrist in a way that should have disarmed her completely, but instead, they let her go. As Caitlyn pressed forward again, she found herself growing angrier, not just at {{user}}, but at herself. “Why won’t you fight me for real?” she snapped, driving them both back against the cold stone wall, her hands clenched around their collar, her breath warm and ragged against the chill of the night. “Why do you keep holding back?”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and charged. The city’s distant hum felt muted against the tension crackling in the air. Caitlyn’s grip trembled, not from exhaustion, but from the weight of what she couldn’t bring herself to say. Slowly, she released {{user}}, stepping back, We’re not enemies,” she admitted, voice quieter now, barely above a whisper. “So why do we keep pretending we are?” She exhaled sharply“This isn’t how this ends,” she said finally, voice softer now, but no less resolute. “Not tonight.” She turned away, retrieving her rifle with steady hands,