Chapter 1
The studio was colder than Vi expected—cement beneath her boots and fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, casting a sterile glow over the polished floors. It didn’t smell like magic or legacy. It smelled like dust, ink, and nerves. A beginning, she reminded herself. This was her beginning.
Rows of folding chairs formed a ring in the center of the room, a circle where names would soon become voices, and pages would begin to live. On the long table by the wall sat the scripts—crisp, spiral-bound, stamped with their names in bold black ink. A room like this wasn’t meant to feel intimate. It was built for pressure.
Vi stepped forward, eyes scanning the faces already gathered—familiar, famous, composed. She could almost hear the weight of her own footsteps. This was her debut. Her shot. Her name had barely been a whisper before this project. Now, people might actually learn it.
And at the heart of the room sat the person they all already knew.
Caitlyn Kiramman.
Even without trying, she drew attention. Not in the loud way—there was no show, no performance in her posture—but something about the quiet grace in how she held herself made her untouchable. Legs crossed neatly, spine straight, script folded between long fingers, a soft expression on her face that gave away nothing. Not even the tiniest flicker of thought.
Caitlyn had been acting ever since she was a kid. A darling of critics, the face of luxury brands, the daughter of a councilwoman and a renowned doctor. Her reputation preceded her—always poised, always gracious, always distant. Untouchable in a different kind of way.
And yet, fans had fallen for their pairing.
Vi looked at her script as if it might burn her fingers.
Her first lead role. Her first real anything. A name now tangled with Caitlyn’s whether she liked it or not.
Because the movie that started it all? Vi had barely spoken three lines to Caitlyn during production. Their characters had shared one scene—maybe two—and barely touched. But when the trailer dropped, the internet lit up like wildfire.
Somehow, a glance had been enough.
Their chemistry, raw and unscripted, had sparked something the writers hadn’t planned for. Fans shipped them before the premiere. Edits flooded the feed within hours. Directors blinked at the response. Writers scrambled for rewrites.
And then the movie blew up.
Rave reviews. Viral scenes. And just like that, Arcane wasn’t a one-time film anymore. It was a series. A story reborn from the ashes of what fans refused to let end.
And now, Vi had to sit across from Caitlyn and make that chemistry real. Again.
She dropped into one of the outer chairs, adjusting the weight of her leather jacket like armor. She didn’t want to sit in the center, didn’t want to be too eager. Let them wonder. Let them think she didn’t care—because if she didn’t play it cool, her heart would give her away.
Vi’s eyes flicked back to the circle. Jayce was there, grinning at something Caitlyn had said. Vi knew him too—handsome, charming, warm. He and Caitlyn were close. Best friends off set, from what she’d read. Their bond was easy, natural. Like they belonged in places like this.
Vi knew the feeling of not belonging.
People like Caitlyn walked into roles with open doors, handshakes, legacy in their blood. Vi had scraped her way through open calls and rejection emails. She didn’t have a family name. Just her own. Just Violet. And it had to be enough.
“Alright, everyone,” a producer called from the front, clapping his hands once. Clipboard tucked under his arm, smile polite but rushed. “Thanks for being here. We’ll start with introductions and move right into a scene read-through. Just a relaxed first day, nothing formal.”
Vi doubted anything about this would feel relaxed.
Names began to float around the room. Mel. Viktor. Jayce. Each one delivering their lines like they’d done this a hundred times—because they had.
Then Caitlyn.
She didn’t stand. Didn’t smile too wide. Just lifted her chin slightly, her voice soft and poised.
“Caitlyn Kiramman. Happy to be back.”
Vi couldn’t tell if she meant it. Her tone was gentle, pleasant. But her face—her eyes—gave nothing away.
When it was Vi’s turn, she cleared her throat, voice sharper than she meant.
“Vi,” she said. “First project… so yeah. Thanks for having me.”
Caitlyn didn’t look at her. Or maybe she did. Vi didn’t check.
Scripts rustled. Pages turned. They were starting with Episode One. The pilot. The spark. Scene Seven—the hallway encounter. Tension laced into every line. Violet and Caitlyn on opposite sides of the law, drawn together by necessity and something unspoken.
Vi skimmed the dialogue, her pulse quickening. The lines were loaded with friction. No one said the word chemistry, but it was everywhere—in the silences, in the looks that weren’t written but expected to be felt.
She didn’t know how Caitlyn would read it.
She didn’t know if she could.
“You two ready?” the director asked.
Vi looked up. Caitlyn’s eyes were already on her.
There was nothing cold in them. But nothing warm, either.
Just calm.
“Always,” Caitlyn said.
Vi swallowed. Nodded.
“Yeah. Let’s do it.”
They were only reading lines. No costumes, no cameras, no sets. Just chairs on concrete and scripts in hand. And yet somehow, the room felt charged—like something unspoken had cracked open the moment they began.
Vi could feel it in her spine. In the stillness that settled over the circle. In the way no one shifted or coughed or reached for their coffee. The air was heavy with silence, like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for something to combust.
She was trying not to look at her.
But she could feel it.
Caitlyn’s eyes—steady, unblinking—on her.
From the first line to the last.
Not glancing, not flickering away and back like others did when they tried to seem interested. No, Caitlyn watched her. Not with judgment. Not with approval either. It wasn’t admiration, and it wasn’t disapproval. It was something else. Something unreadable.
Like she was studying her.
And it rattled Vi more than she wanted to admit.
Caitlyn didn’t react to anything Vi said. Not visibly. Her face, as always, was calm. Beautiful, but distant. Serene, but unreachable. She wasn’t dramatic, or overdoing it for effect. Her voice stayed low, even. Her expression barely moved.
But her eyes never left Vi.
And that alone was enough to fill the room with tension.
Vi, who had expected this to feel awkward, forced, maybe even a little fake—felt herself leaning in, pulled by something she didn’t have a name for. Her own voice grew quieter. Her hands steadied. There was no audience, but suddenly, it felt like she was performing for one person only.
And that person hadn’t blinked once.
Caitlyn’s gaze wasn’t cold. It wasn’t warm either. It was just there. Present. Focused. A mirror that didn’t flinch. And for someone who had spent her life being overlooked or underestimated, Vi didn’t know what to do with that kind of attention.
It felt like exposure.
Like standing under a spotlight with no script, no armor, no way to hide.
By the time the reading ended, Vi felt her breath lodged somewhere in her ribs. Her mouth was dry. She hadn’t realized how tightly she was gripping her script until her fingers hurt.
And Caitlyn?
She closed her copy slowly. Slid her thumb along the edge. And then—finally—looked away.
As if that entire time, she hadn’t been aware of what she was doing.
As if it hadn’t meant anything.
Vi stared down at her lap, pulse thrumming like distant thunder. No one said much. The room broke into murmurs. Someone made a quiet joke. Jayce laughed. A few chuckled. Chairs shifted.
But Vi didn’t move.
Caitlyn had barely spoken outside the script. She hadn’t smiled at her. Hadn’t even nodded. And yet, somehow, Vi felt like she’d just had a full conversation without a single word exchanged.
It was unsettling.
Unnerving.
And—if she was honest—unforgettable.
The room had mostly cleared. The energy, once electric and full of silent expectation, had dulled into a low hum. A few voices still floated from somewhere down the hallway, crew wrapping up loose ends, someone laughing at something Jayce had said on his way out. But in here, the air had shifted.
Still. Dim. A little too quiet.
Vi stayed seated, letting the cool metal of the chair press into her spine, eyes fixed on the blank concrete floor. Her hands were idle, but her mind wasn’t. That scene had burned through her like a fuse. Not because of the words—but because of the way Caitlyn had looked at her.
Not glancing. Not casually.
Watched.
Like Vi was something Caitlyn needed to figure out.
She didn’t like that. She didn’t like being studied.
So when she heard the soft footfalls approaching, slow and measured, she already knew who it was. She didn’t bother to school her expression.
“Hi.”
Vi looked up.
Caitlyn stood with her hands lightly folded in front of her script, her posture precise but not stiff, her voice gentle but deliberate. There was something poised about her—an elegance that didn’t need to be spoken. She didn’t smile, but her face was open. Neutral.
“I just wanted to introduce myself properly,” she said. “Caitlyn. Looks like we’ll be scene partners for a while.”
Vi let the words hang between them like mist.
Then she stood slowly, brushing her hands down the sides of her jeans. “You already did that. During the read.”
Caitlyn nodded once, unfazed. “Yes. But that wasn’t... personal.”
Vi crossed her arms. “Should it be?”
Caitlyn’s gaze didn’t waver. “Not necessarily.”
A pause.
Then Vi sighed, not out of frustration, but out of effort. “Look,” she said, voice lower now. “I get what you’re doing. The whole polite, let’s-start-off-on-the-right-foot thing. It’s nice. But the cameras aren’t rolling yet. You don’t have to fake it.”
Caitlyn’s expression didn’t shift. Not visibly. But something passed behind her eyes—quiet, slow, like a shadow pulling back.
“I wasn’t faking anything,” she said.
Vi tilted her head slightly. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
The silence between them stretched.
“You think I’m pretending because I’m used to it,” Caitlyn said, voice soft but unflinching. “Because I know how to say the right thing.”
Vi didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The truth was already written in her body language, in the way she didn’t uncross her arms, didn’t drop her gaze, didn’t shift an inch.
“I’m not here to impress you, Vi,” Caitlyn continued. “I just thought it was decent to introduce myself.”
Vi looked away. “Decent feels a lot like scripted when it comes from someone like you.”
Caitlyn’s jaw moved ever so slightly, the only sign that Vi’s words had reached her.
“I see,” she said, and she said it like a conclusion, not an argument.
She didn’t step back. But she didn’t move closer either.
Vi swallowed. Her voice came quieter now, almost hesitant.
“This is my first real role,” she admitted, eyes still averted. “And I want to do it right. I don’t need distractions.”
Caitlyn blinked, slow. “You think I’m a distraction?”
Vi looked at her then, not with anger, but with blunt honesty. “You look at me like you already know how this ends.”
Caitlyn’s lips parted for a second—then closed again.
She seemed to study Vi’s face like she was reading something in the pauses, not the words.
“I don’t,” she said at last. “But I’d like to.”
Vi said nothing.
Another long silence passed.
Then Caitlyn’s voice returned, soft and even.
“Regardless of how you feel about me… we’ll be falling in love on camera. So I hope we can meet somewhere in the middle.”
With that, she gave a slight nod and stepped away, walking toward the door—quiet, graceful, unbothered in the way only someone raised in pressure could be.
Vi stood still, jaw set.
There hadn’t been any threat in Caitlyn’s words. No challenge.
But somehow, the line had still been drawn.
And deep down, Vi couldn’t help but feel like Caitlyn hadn’t stepped away from it.
She’d stepped through it.
Vi’s apartment was exactly what you'd expect from someone still new to the industry and refusing to ask for help—bare, lived-in, a little rough around the edges. The kind of place where every piece of furniture had either been carried up the stairs by hand or dragged in secondhand.
The kitchenette was missing two cabinet doors. The window blinds didn’t quite close all the way. A chipped mug with lukewarm tea sat beside a takeout box on the counter. In the middle of it all, Vi sat cross-legged on the worn rug, a threadbare pillow tucked under one arm like she hadn’t decided if she was relaxing or preparing for battle.
Jinx was lying stomach-down on the mattress in the corner, legs swinging in the air, scrolling through her cracked phone screen. Ekko sat with his back against the door, his sketchbook open across his lap, though his pencil hadn’t moved in a while.
“Didn’t think a person could stare in full sentences,” Vi muttered, pulling her hair up into a quick, messy bun. “But she managed it.”
Jinx smirked without looking up. “Let me guess—Miss Ice Queen with the soft voice and killer cheekbones?”
Vi didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
“I knew it,” Jinx laughed, tapping at her phone. “You so got rattled.”
“She introduced herself like it was a press conference,” Vi said, twisting the cap off a bottle of soda and taking a long sip. “All proper. Perfect tone. And then she told me we’d be working closely. On screen.”
“She’s your love interest, right?” Ekko asked.
Vi nodded, looking away. “Yeah.”
“Must be fun.”
Vi scoffed. “It’s not. She’s… she’s Kiramman’s daughter.”
That got Jinx’s attention. She rolled over, blinking at Vi. “Wait, that Kiramman? The councilwoman?”
“Yup,” Vi said, bitterly. “The one who called Zaun a ‘regrettable necessity’ and said we needed ‘more regulation, less rebellion.’”
Ekko’s brow furrowed. “Wasn’t she the one who fought against the funding for clinics down here?”
Vi nodded slowly. “Same woman. And now her daughter’s playing the sweet, brave enforcer who falls for the street kid from Zaun.”
Jinx sat up a little straighter. “Damn. That’s... twisted.”
Vi rubbed the back of her neck. “I just— I don’t get it. Caitlyn stands there with her perfect face and her quiet voice and acts like we’re equals. Like we both climbed here the same way.”
“She might not think that,” Ekko said carefully.
“Doesn’t matter,” Vi replied. “That’s what it feels like.”
She stood and began pacing the narrow space between the mattress and the sink. “She’s been doing this for years. Comes from money, name recognition, a mother who probably pulled strings. And me? I had to scrap for every damn second of screen time.”
“And now you’ve got it,” Ekko said softly.
Vi stopped pacing. “What?”
Ekko looked up. “Vi, this is your shot. Your name is printed on a real script. You’re the lead. This is the moment. Don’t waste it thinking about where she came from. Focus on where you’re going.”
Vi frowned. She wanted to push back, to argue, but she couldn’t. The words hit too clean. Too true.
“You think I don’t know that?” she muttered. “You think I haven’t had that thought every hour since I signed the damn contract?”
“No,” Ekko said, calm and steady. “I think you’re scared. And you’re trying to protect yourself by pushing everyone else away before they get the chance to look down on you.”
Jinx whistled low. “He’s right, you know.”
Vi turned her face toward the open window. “I’m not scared.”
“Then stop acting like you’ve got something to prove to everyone,” Ekko said. “Because right now, you’re not proving anything except how much space she’s taking up in your head.”
Vi went quiet.
There was no comeback for that. Not tonight.
Jinx, sensing the shift, picked up her phone again. “Welp. Internet’s losing its mind.”
Vi glanced over. “What now?”
“The Arcane socials posted a few table read photos,” Jinx said, turning the screen toward them. “You and Caitlyn sitting across from each other. Locked eyes. Fans are screaming.”
Vi stared at the image. There they were—her and Caitlyn. From earlier today. The script in her lap, her body tilted forward, Caitlyn’s gaze locked on her like gravity.
She hadn’t even realized the camera had been there.
“Read the comments,” Jinx said.
Ekko leaned in.
“Oh my god the tension already—are we ready to suffer?”
“Vi and Caitlyn weren’t even talking and I felt the chemistry—what kind of sorcery…”
“This show hasn’t aired a second and I’m already shipping them harder than my own parents.”
“Someone please check on Vi. She looks like she’s trying not to fall in love and fail at the same time.”
Vi rubbed her face with both hands. “Kill me.”
Jinx laughed. “You’re famous now. Get used to it.”
Ekko smiled, but there was warmth in his voice. “They see it, Vi. They see you. And they believe it.”
Vi didn’t answer. She just sat back down, her gaze trailing back to the screen. To that photo. That moment.
And the way Caitlyn had been watching her.
The studio smelled faintly of wire and powder. Too many lights hung overhead, hot and humming, painting everything in that curated, flattering glow designed to make real people look cinematic. The branded Arcane backdrop curved behind the couch in smooth arcs of navy and gold, the show’s logo gleaming at every angle. The set was perfect.
So was she.
Caitlyn sat at the far end of the couch, posture immaculate, her hair swept behind one shoulder in a deliberate but effortless line. Her blouse was a soft, deep blue—simple, elegant, made to disappear under the weight of her presence. She spoke quietly with the PA checking microphones, her voice low, clipped, too polished to be personal. When she nodded, it was decisive. When she smiled, it was measured. Nothing was out of place. Nothing ever was.
Beside her, Jayce sprawled with all the energy of a man who’d made peace with the spotlight years ago. Bright, beaming, born for the stage—even if this wasn’t one. He filled every inch of the space he was given, and probably a little more. Viktor sat beside him, relaxed but sharp-eyed, fingers laced and resting lightly on his knee, his expression unreadable but amused—like he was watching the scene from above.
And then there was Vi.
Sitting stiff near the center, one knee bouncing in a quiet staccato, hands on her thighs. Her boots were scuffed. Her sleeves pushed to the elbows. She looked like she belonged nowhere near the velvet couch, but she sat there anyway, shoulders squared as if daring the lights to call her out.
The mic clipped to her collar itched. Her throat felt dry. But she didn’t reach for the bottle of water placed a little too far to the side of her seat. Didn’t want to seem nervous. Or green. Or like she gave a damn.
The camera blinked red.
The interviewer smiled.
“We are here today with the cast of Arcane Season One—Jayce Talis, Viktor Stein, Vi, and of course, Caitlyn Kiramman. Welcome, all of you.”
Murmured greetings followed—Jayce charming, Viktor dry, Caitlyn poised. Vi gave a small nod.
“It’s hard to believe it’s finally happening,” the interviewer continued, her clipboard filled with questions the internet had likely written for her. “The series comes after the success of the Arcane movie, and fans have been hungry for more—especially when it comes to your characters, Vi and Caitlyn.”
Vi tensed, just slightly. Her leg stilled.
“You two had only a few scenes together in the film, but the chemistry was undeniable. Caitlyn, what was your reaction to that sudden fan response?”
Without missing a beat, Caitlyn leaned slightly forward and took the mic. Her voice was even, cool as morning air. “It was surprising. But welcome. I think the film hinted at something unspoken between them—something that, when placed in the context of their differences, became emotionally magnetic. We didn’t expect the reaction, but we understand it.”
Vi didn’t look at her. She stared at the floor instead, jaw tight.
The interviewer turned to her. “Vi, this is your debut. You’ve exploded online since the trailer. How has it been sharing scenes with someone as seasoned as Caitlyn?”
She cleared her throat.
It caught.
Nothing major—just a faint rasp that stuck for half a second. But it was enough.
She blinked. Reached slightly toward her side.
There was no bottle.
She swallowed once, hoping the moment would pass unnoticed.
It didn’t.
Caitlyn’s head turned, slow and subtle, and without a word, she reached for the bottle resting between her own seat and Jayce’s. She uncapped it in one smooth twist, leaned forward, and set it quietly beside Vi on the cushion. She didn’t make eye contact. Didn’t wait for thanks.
Just noticed.
Just moved.
Vi stared at it like it was a trick.
“Thanks,” she said, voice low.
Still, Caitlyn didn’t look at her.
Jayce, oblivious, laughed. “You should’ve seen them at the table read. One scene—one. And the room went silent. Tension so thick you could cut it with a damn blade.”
Vi let out a small breath. “Guess it reads.”
“Reads?” the interviewer grinned. “It ignites. Fans have already created dozens of edits. Some are convinced your characters have known each other in a past life.”
Caitlyn took the mic again. “There’s a weight to their scenes. They challenge each other. Not just with words, but with silence.”
Vi finally spoke up. “Sometimes silence says more than the script.”
Caitlyn’s gaze slid toward her then—brief, quiet, sharp as flint.
“And does that make the performance easier or harder?” the interviewer asked.
Vi shrugged. “Depends on the day.”
“But it’s been rewarding,” Caitlyn said softly, her voice curving into something gentler. “Because it means you’re being seen.”
Vi didn’t speak. But her hand stayed curled around the water bottle.
“Any hints at where the story’s going?” the interviewer asked.
Viktor leaned in. “They’ll have to learn to survive each other.”
Jayce grinned. “Or fall headfirst into something messier.”
“And for the record,” he added, pointing at the camera, “I called this pairing before any of you. Day one.”
Laughter followed.
Caitlyn smiled.
Vi didn’t.
But under the studio lights, she sat a little straighter.
Held the bottle a little tighter.
And wondered—for the first time—if Caitlyn’s calm wasn’t just polish.
If maybe, underneath the perfect lines and camera-ready grace, there was someone watching her more closely than anyone else in the room.
The interview lights dimmed, and the false cheer of the studio melted into something quieter. Crew shuffled behind cameras, voices muted, cables dragging like roots torn from stage soil. Jayce and Viktor disappeared into easy laughter with the producer. Vi stood, already halfway turned toward the exit, but a voice called her back.
“Vi, Caitlyn—quick photo before you go?” The PR rep jogged over with a smile too practiced to be real, a phone already poised in hand. “Marketing needs something candid. Just a quick shot for socials. Fans will eat it up.”
Vi didn’t answer. Her jaw flexed, but she stopped. Caitlyn, ever composed, stepped forward with a small nod, her expression unreadable.
They stood side by side beneath the lingering lights. Caitlyn offered the faintest tilt of her body toward Vi, a professional mimicry of closeness. Vi stayed rigid. Her arms crossed. Eyes sharp and distant.
The PR’s voice chirped again, “Maybe a little closer?”
Caitlyn didn’t move. Neither did Vi. The camera clicked anyway.
“One more—great. Thank you!”
The moment ended. The rep vanished, satisfied. Silence returned.
Caitlyn turned to Vi. “You don’t have to like this. But you could at least pretend to be present.”
Vi scoffed, shifting her weight. “You’re used to pretending. I’m not.”
Caitlyn blinked, taken aback by the sharpness. “What did I do, Vi?”
Vi didn’t answer.
“I’m trying,” Caitlyn added quietly. “If there’s a problem—if I’ve upset you—just say it.”
Vi finally looked at her, and the cold in her stare was almost physical. “We’re not friends, Caitlyn. You don’t get to try.”
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened. “Then what are we supposed to be? Because we’re going to be working together for a long time.”
“Professionals,” Vi said flatly. “That’s it.”
Another silence, longer this time. Caitlyn’s hands curled into loose fists at her sides.
“You act like I’ve wronged you,” she said. “But you’ve barely spoken to me since the project began.”
Vi gave a humorless smile. “That’s generous. We didn’t speak at all until someone handed us a script and told us to pretend we trust each other.”
“I’m not asking you to trust me.”
“Good,” Vi snapped, already walking away. “Because I don’t.”
Caitlyn stood still, her breath caught between pride and ache. The door clicked shut behind Vi, leaving only the echo of her footsteps and the emptiness between them.
Caitlyn didn’t move. Her posture remained composed, but her throat had tightened, a subtle pressure blooming in her chest. The light that lingered on set felt colder now. The sharpness in Vi’s voice replayed in her mind—unshakable.
A beat of silence passed.
Then footsteps—quick, confident.
Jayce appeared from the hallway, still buttoning his coat, brows raised. “You okay?”
Caitlyn exhaled slowly through her nose. “Of course.”
Jayce didn’t buy it. He stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he looked at her. “You’re usually better at lying.”
Caitlyn gave a small, hollow smile. “She doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
Jayce looked toward the door Vi had exited through. “She’s rough around the edges. It’s not personal.”
“It feels personal.” Caitlyn’s voice was quieter now. “It’s like... I’m a reminder of everything she resents. Even if I didn’t choose it.”
Jayce’s tone softened. “She’ll come around. You’re not your family, Cait.”
Caitlyn stared at the spot Vi had stood in moments ago. “I’m not sure she sees the difference.”
The camera had caught the smile. But not this.
This wasn’t for the fans. This was real—and far more difficult to face.