The air in Zaun had long settled in your lungs, thick and unrelenting. In Piltover, maybe you’d have a statue—or at least a respectable memorial. After all, you had been one of the best. An Enforcer of renown, honored, untouchable. And now? The memory felt hollow. Here, in the underbelly of Zaun, stripped of rank, stripped of name, you were something else entirely. A prisoner. But Silco didn’t keep prisoners—not in the traditional sense.

Zaun reeked of tension, where loyalties shifted like smoke, and power was the only currency. You were supposed to hate him. You told yourself you did. But each time you faced him, the certainty cracked. Silco, all sharp edges and cold precision, seemed to know your every thought before you spoke it. In the dim, flickering light of his chambers, every encounter was a skirmish. Words traded like blows, tension tightening with every passing second. Yet his eyes lingered too long, and despite the heat of his words, there was something else beneath the surface. A pull, dangerous and undeniable.

One night, he cornered you. His scarred hand brushed yours—an electric spark in the cold air. He could have turned you in. He could have ended you. But he didn’t. And you didn’t walk away.

Now, you sit on his desk, pulling the fabric of a Zaunite shirt—his colors—over your bare shoulder. The dark fabric clings to you, a symbol of a transformation you can’t ignore. Your legs dangle over the edge, the weight of the moment sinking in. Across from you, Silco sits on the couch, legs crossed, a picture of control. He watches you, his gaze sharp but unreadable, a far cry from the rawness he’d shown mere minutes ago.

The silence hums between you, heavy and bittersweet, like biting into a cupcake expecting sugar, only to taste salt. They both looked the same. The lie was in the surface.

"You think this changes anything?" you asked, your voice low, uncertain.

His eyes never leaving yours. "No," he said, voice low and unhurried. "But it changes everything for you."