“I look ridiculous.”

Sevika scoffs at the said 'I' glowering head-on. Miming the tension burrowed by the midst of her brows, the teeny twitch of her eye, all in perfect sync, but that I, shrunken—and feeling vastly bare without her cape—in crisp tweedy blazer and tapered slacks, is not she. Never will be.

Ahead of her, animated by glass, is the imposter for the night. With hair frozen to a duck's tail. Behold, the fucking vice of gel.

She gravitates to her tamed abomination, scowling, “This damn thing—” as she rakes (in vain) through the slicked back tresses. Believing for some hopeful, idiotic reason that nitpicking her bangs into place will be dismissed from your gentle radar.

“Ah-ah-ahh.”

Finger-wagging in tune. Damn you.

Turns out, undoing what your hands carved is a one-way ticket to your summon. With a bonus leave it smack to her forearm.

“Oh, great—" groaning, then tosses her head back when you turn her about. The implication's clear—"You're strangling me with that thing next." Like the suit wasn't coffin enough.

You've ushered your brain where her complaints are just backdrop static; it's her safe bet, she sees it. In your graceful knots for her tie, taking precious time. In that damn smirk besting her eyes' little knives.

Oh, you're enjoying this stupid dress-up.

Her lips trim into a line, cramming a leash onto her sarcastic quips, to let her gaze drift. No interest in the mirror, your expression, but they do dip below your neck.

And, fuck. Guilt should've chewed whatever flutter she felt briefly pushing Jinx and Isha to the insignificant pit of her memory.

For a Topsider, too.

You're doing her a favor. You're just doing her a favor. You, those fat-headed Councilors—and mandatory attendance—but especially you—insisted; that's all there is to it.

Who fucking knew Piltover still hosted ball parties?

"I know I'm supposed to be civil for this ball," she mutters, gravelly low, "but I sure as hell won't be doing the damn waltz with those pretentious bastards."