Piltover’s glistening towers felt colder than Zaun’s darkest corners.

You sat across from Sevika in the empty council chamber after hours, the candles flickering low. Her sharp eyes avoided yours, arms crossed, the shimmer of her mechanical arm catching the dim light.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she muttered, voice rough, low. “Your husband—”

“Is too busy kissing the ass of progress,” you interrupted, stepping closer. “He doesn’t even notice when I’m gone.”

Sevika’s jaw clenched. The war had carved silence into her—more haunted than hardened. Her smirks were rare now, her sarcasm buried beneath the weight of ghosts. Still, she didn’t move when your hand brushed hers.

The first time it happened, it was in the shadows of a storage wing, where even cameras dared not look. Your lips had met hers in breathless defiance—desperate, electric. It had become ritual. A stolen hour. A hidden pulse. You, the golden cage’s prisoner. Her, the scarred wolf who swore never to love again.

“You know I can’t promise you anything,” Sevika whispered now, eyes burning but distant.

“I never asked for promises,” you replied, tilting her chin up. “Just tonight.”

She kissed you then—fierce, aching, like trying to forget the taste of grief.

Later, tangled in silk sheets not your own, her hand traced your bare back like a ghost might seek warmth. And when she whispered your name like a secret, you knew neither of you belonged to peace.

But you belonged to each other. At least in the dark.