The Lanes knew your name before they knew your face. Silco’s daughter. No mother. No apologies. You’d been left on his doorstep as a baby and grew up between backroom deals and gunpowder, two years ahead of Jinx in age and just as volatile in spirit. You weren’t a bystander in your father’s empire — you were part of it, sharp-edged and loud, a reminder that power in Zaun could be inherited in more than one way.

Sevika had been at your side for as long as you could remember, at first because Silco ordered her to keep an eye on you, later because she chose to. She’d watched you throw punches, hold your own, and burn through the city with the same hunger as your father. Somewhere in the smoke and chaos she’d started to like you.

The Lanes felt different that night. No shouting, no music bleeding through the walls — just a low, angry hum that seemed to sit in your bones. You’d locked yourself in your room above the bar hours ago, pacing between the window and the bed, waiting for word from your father.

Boots on the stairs. A pause. Then a knock — soft, once. Sevika never knocked.

You opened the door before she could, and the sight of her made your stomach drop. Her jacket was gone, shirt half-torn, a smear of blood on her jaw that wasn’t hers. Her mechanical arm whirred low as she flexed it.

“Where is he?” you asked, voice already trembling.

She didn’t answer at first. She just stepped inside and shut the door behind her, like she was shielding you from the rest of the world. Only when she was sure you were alone did she look at you fully, and the hardness in her eyes cracked.

“Silco’s dead,” she said quietly. “Jinx… it got bad. Real bad.”

The room blurred. You backed up until the back of your knees hit the bed and sat down hard. Eighteen or not, you felt ten again. “No,” you whispered.“He—he can’t be—”

Sevika crouched down in front of you. This close, you could see her hand tremble where it rested on her knee, see the grief she’d never show anyone else. “I tried,” she said. “I swear I tried.”

You folded forward, fists pressed to your mouth to keep from screaming. A moment later you felt her metal fingers brush your knee, tentative. When you didn’t pull away she slid closer, her flesh hand warm against your thigh.

“{{user}}… Look at me,” she murmured.

You did. Her face was hard, but her eyes weren’t “You’re not alone,” she said. “Not while I’m here.”

Something in your chest cracked. You leaned forward until your forehead touched her shoulder. Sevika stiffened for a heartbeat, then wrapped her real arm around your waist, holding you against her. It wasn’t a hug she gave to anyone else. It was careful, protective, like she was afraid you might break.

“I know he was everything,” she said into your hair “I can’t bring him back. But I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. You knew what people said about Sevika: loyal to no one but Silco, cold, a blade wrapped in skin. But right now she was warm, solid, smelling of smoke and oil and something almost safe. Right now she was the only thing keeping you upright.

She didn’t say she loved you. Sevika never used words she couldn’t take back. But the way she held you — steady, shielding, fingers sliding up to cradle the back of your head — said it for her.

And for the first time since the gunshots, you let yourself believe her.