Let the weak girl die.
Vi never stopped looking. Every night, after finishing whatever task Silco set before her, she walked. Through the crumbling streets, past the dim-lit alleys and rusted bridges, through the parts of the Undercity where the past still clung to her heels like a shadow.
It wasn’t a necessity, wasn’t something she was told to do, but she did it anyway. It helped her remember who she was and who she fought for.
For a ghost, a voice in her head whispered.
She never found anything. Never saw so much as a shadow of him.
But still, she walked. She wanted something—anything—to hold on to, something to prove that he wasn’t gone too. That even if she had left him alone with Powder that night, even if she had failed to protect him, the little man was still alive.
So she never skipped her routine walk. Arms tucked into her pockets, hood pulled low, scanning the alleys and underpasses like she always did. She wasn’t even sure what she expected to find—if he was still out there, if he’d even want to be found after everything.
It didn’t matter. She still tried.
Then the shouting caught her attention.
Another street brawl—nothing new. Vi paused at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, watching fists fly and curses spit through clenched teeth. For a moment, she considered walking away. It wasn’t her fight, wasn’t her problem.
Then the enforcers arrived.
They were everywhere these days. Silco had said it was an order from the Piltover Council—that the Undercity had gone unchecked for too long.
This is all we’ll ever be to the fancy people of Piltover, she thought. Animals that need control to survive.
Gunfire cracked the air. People scattered. Vi turned to leave, but before she could move—
A sharp, searing pain tore through her right arm.
The bullet struck with the force of a hammer, slamming her off balance. The world tilted, pavement rushing up to meet her. She landed hard, her breath punched from her lungs, but all she could focus on was the blinding agony ripping through her arm. She tried to move her fingers. Nothing. Her whole arm felt numb—except for the excruciating pain radiating from her elbow.
Blood seeped between her fingers, warm and relentless. The shouts and sirens faded into a dull roar in the back of her mind. No one stopped. No one looked twice at the girl curled on the ground, cradling a ruined limb.
Move.
She pressed her good hand over the wound, gasping as white-hot pain flared through her bones. Get up. Go home. Keep moving.
Her legs barely carried her. The streets blurred, dark edges creeping into her vision. She knew these roads, knew every alley and shortcut, but everything felt so far away.
She never made it.
Silco drummed his fingers against the desk, his patience wearing thin. The clock ticked on, each passing minute scraping against his nerves like a dull blade.
Vi was late.
She wasn’t careless—not anymore. Not since he had taken her in, not since she started living under his roof, under his rules. She fought him on them, of course—she fought him on everything—but she never missed curfew.
Not once.
And yet, the hour stretched on, and she did not return.
He pushed to his feet, ignoring the weight of tired eyes watching him from across the room.
One of his goons shifted in his seat, arms crossed. “She’s probably just blowing off steam. You know how she is, boss.”
Silco’s gaze snapped to him—cold, unyielding. "Bring the others. We’re going to find her."
A beat of silence, then movement—his men scrambled to obey, slipping out the door one by one. The air in the office felt heavy, thick with something unsaid.
Silco turned to the window, staring out over the murky glow of Zaun. A flicker of something unfamiliar twisted in his gut.
Vi wasn’t reckless. Not this reckless.
And if something had happened— His fingers curled into a fist, nails pressing into his palm.
His men combed the streets, but it was Silco himself who spotted her first. A slumped figure, one leg buckled beneath her, blood streaked across her clothes like smeared paint.
His stomach twisted—an old, unwelcome feeling.
"Violet."
Her head lolled slightly, fever-bright eyes struggling to focus on him. Her lips parted, moving soundlessly before she rasped, "’m fine."
She wasn’t.
She barely stirred when he lifted her. His coat was ruined, blood soaking into the fabric, but he didn’t care.
The streets had already abandoned her once. He wouldn’t.
The fever took hold quickly.
Shimmer dulled the pain, kept her conscious, but it couldn’t stop the rot. The wound festered, black creeping up her arm, swallowing muscle and flesh.
She fought it.
She fought them.
She kicked, thrashed, cursed at Silco’s people whenever they came near. But she was weak, her body betraying her with every fevered breath.
The infection spread anyway.
Amputation was the only choice.
She didn’t remember much after that—only flashes. Hands pressing her down, voices speaking over her, the sharp sting of another injection. Then darkness.
But she did remember Silco.
He was there.
Through every fevered breath, through the worst of it, through the delirium and the nightmares. He sat by her side, silent, patient. When she clawed at the sheets in pain, when she gritted her teeth and turned away from him in defiance, he did not leave.
He never tried to comfort her, never offered empty words. He only watched, waiting for the moment she would wake and realize what had been taken from her.
And when she finally did—when she blinked blearily at the dim light of the room, felt the sharp, hollow weight of loss—he was still there.
Her right arm was gone.
It wasn’t the pain that hit her first.
It was the absence.
The ghost of fingers that weren’t there.
The sick, hollow weight in her gut.
She turned her head. Silco sat across from her, watching.
Vi swallowed, her throat raw. “You—” She stopped. Her voice barely worked. She wet her lips, started again.
“You cut it off.”
Silco didn’t blink. “You would’ve died. I did what was necessary to ensure your survival.”
She turned her head away, jaw clenching. It should’ve been anger, but the fury wouldn’t come. Just exhaustion. Just the aching space where something used to be.
She didn’t know how long she lay there before he finally spoke again.
"I’d like to let you in on a very important secret I learned when I was about your age, darling. You see, power—real power—doesn’t come to those born strongest, or fastest, or smartest. No. It comes to those who will do anything to achieve it."
Something was placed beside her—not tossed, not dropped, but set down with purpose.
Wrapped carefully in dark cloth. Precise. Measured.
A gift.
She stared.
Slowly, she reached out with her remaining hand, tugging at the fabric. The cloth unraveled, revealing sleek metal—a mechanical arm, powerful and deliberate in its design. It wasn’t crude. Wasn’t some half-baked replacement.
It was a weapon.
She swallowed hard. “What is this?”
Silco’s voice was quiet, even. “A second chance.”
Vi flexed her fingers. They trembled. She clenched them into a fist.
And then, with slow, measured movement, she reached for the arm.
The weight of it settled over her—heavy, final.
The straps bit into her shoulder as it locked into place. The mechanisms shifted, wires humming to life. She flexed her fingers. The metal ones obeyed.
Then—shkk—claws slid out. Retractable, sharp as hell. A tool. A weapon. A reminder.
A gift.
Silco watched her. Searching. Waiting.
A long silence stretched between them.
Finally, Vi exhaled. Rolled her shoulder. Let the metal settle into place.
"The thing with pain, Vi, is that it can either break you, or forge you into something greater. You need to kill the weak girl inside of you. You need to let go of your past so the fear of pain will no longer control you. You're strong now—just like you were always meant to be."