the art of war and desire

Mel sits in the quiet opulence of her chambers, bathed in the faint, golden glow of a single lamp. Outside the grand windows, Piltover’s skyline stretches endlessly, glittering with a beauty that once filled her with pride. Now, it only feels like a facade, somewhat perfect, somewhat hollow. She twirls the stem of a glass of wine between her fingers, though she hasn’t taken a sip in what feels like hours.

The wine is rich, expensive, the kind her mother always kept on hand for victory celebrations. Mel hates that she recognizes its’ origin. Every detail in her chambers reminds her of her mother—sharp, deliberate, commanding—and yet, now that Ambessa is gone, none of it feels like hers.

She is the last Medarda. The weight of it settles over her shoulders like an invisible cloak, heavy and inescapable. There’s no one left to overshadow her, to scold her, to teach her what the Medarda name is meant to stand for. For the first time in her life, the vastness of it terrifies her.

Her fingers tighten around the glass. It’s been weeks since Ambessa’s death, and still, Mel can’t decide how to feel about it. Her mother was a woman of power, but also of cruelty. Her influence had been inescapable, shaping Mel’s life in ways she both resented and respected. Now, with no one left to hold her accountable, Mel wonders if she has the strength, or the will, to carry on her legacy.

A faint knock at the door echoes through the room, but she doesn’t call for them to enter. Whoever it is retreats after a moment, leaving her alone with her thoughts, as she’s been for days now.

She lets her head fall back against the high-backed chair, staring at the intricate patterns carved into the ceiling. What is her path now? What does she even want? 

Once, it was easy to say. To rise above, to claim a seat at the highest tables of power, to reshape the world through subtle, cunning force. Now, the world feels fractured. The war left scars on the city and its’ people, and her role in that conflict isn’t something she can ignore.

She leans forward, placing the untouched glass on the low table in front of her. She presses her hands together, as if in prayer, though she doesn’t believe in such things. The truth she’s been avoiding, the thought that gnaws at her late into the night, is this: she doesn’t know who she is without her mother.

Ambessa had been a guiding star, bright and brutal, pointing the way forward even as Mel resisted. But in the void her death left, Mel sees a stark reality—there is no one left to dictate her choices. And with that freedom comes the crushing realization that every step forward is hers to make, every mistake hers to own.

For the first time, she wonders if she’s strong enough to bear it.

Her gaze drifts to the ornate sword mounted on the wall, a relic from her family’s past. It had been Ambessa’s, sharp enough to cut through anything in its’ path. Mel’s fingers itch to reach for it, as if touching it might tether her to something solid. But she stays seated, the thought of its’ weight too heavy on her mind.

She exhales slowly, the sound breaking the silence of the room. Her mother had always told her that sentiment was weakness, that to lead was to be unyielding, merciless. But Mel had seen what that kind of leadership had wrought—a cycle of violence, a world divided. She doesn’t want to become her mother, but she also doesn’t know how to lead in her absence.

The city outside gleams with potential, with hope and greed and danger all tangled together. She can see it for what it is, the same way she sees herself now. Unfinished, uncertain, but alive. 

In her reflection, she sees the woman she’s become: polished, perfectly in control. It’s the kind of image her mother would have approved of.

Her lips press into a thin line. Ambessa Medarda would have demanded more.

There will be no funeral. 

The thought comes without hesitation, as firm and unyielding as her mother’s iron will had been in life. She can imagine what the great General Medarda would have wanted: a ceremony as grand and unrelenting as the woman herself. Her death would be declared a national loss, a moment for Piltover and Noxus alike to mourn a titan of industry, strategy, and war. Ambessa would have wanted the kind of recognition that carved names into history books, that left the world kneeling in reverence.

If there had been a funeral, Ambessa would have wanted it to serve her. To be an event, a spectacle. A proclamation to the world that her death was not just the passing of a person, but the loss of a force.

But Mel knows she can’t—won’t—give her that.

For one, Piltover has no place for such displays. This city of innovation and precision would balk at the pageantry of a Noxian funeral. Here, death is a quiet inconvenience, something to be sanitized and moved past. And beyond that, Mel doesn’t believe her mother deserves it. Not from her.

Mel lets her hand slide down to her side, fingers brushing against the cold fabric of her gown. It’s strange, she thinks, that someone so larger-than-life could vanish so utterly. No lingering shadows, no final words of advice or warning. Just absence.

In truth, Mel doesn’t know if she feels grief. There’s something hollow, yes, but it doesn’t ache in the way she imagined loss would. Maybe it’s because her mother had always felt distant, even in the moments they stood face to face. Ambessa had loomed over her life like a storm cloud, imposing, inescapable, but never quite tangible.

Mel steadies herself. She wouldn’t want a funeral anyway. The thought lands heavily, carrying the weight of certainty. Ambessa had no use for sentiment, for the soft, messy emotions that came with mourning. She would have scoffed at the idea of people weeping over her, seen it as weakness.

That is precisely the part she can’t forgive. The endless hunger, the need to dominate even in death. Ambessa might have carved out her legacy in Noxian stone, but here in Piltover, Mel refuses to let that shadow stretch further.

Her fingers curl against her palm as she turns from the window, pacing the length of the room. If there’s a legacy to preserve, it won’t be her mother’s. It will be her own.

She allows herself to stop, to lean against the edge of her desk. Her gaze drifts to a small box tucked away on a shelf. Inside it lies one of her mother’s trinkets, sent to her years ago with no note. A simple blade—a reminder, Ambessa would say, of what it means to wield power. Mel hasn’t touched it since the day it arrived.

She wonders, briefly, if her mother would have hated her for this. For refusing to honor her the way a dutiful daughter should. For choosing silence over spectacle. For carving her own path, even now.

But the thought passes quickly. Mel knows the answer, and it doesn’t matter. Ambessa is gone, and for the first time in her life, Mel Medarda doesn’t have to answer to anyone but herself.

There will be no funeral. No tributes. No declarations of loss. Whatever Ambessa’s legacy may have been, it ended the moment she did.

Mel straightens, the decision settling over her like a quiet storm. If she must carry the Medarda name alone, she will do so on her own terms. Not as her mother’s shadow, but as something else entirely. Something new.

For that moment, she allows herself the smallest flicker of vulnerability. She presses her fingers to her temple, closing her eyes. 

What would you have done, Mother? she wonders, though she knows the answer all too well.

Ambessa would have seized control, bent the world to her will. But Mel doesn’t want to rule like that. She wants something different, though she’s not sure what.

The silence stretches on as she sits there, her thoughts a tangle of doubt and determination. She is the last Medarda. She cannot run from it. But maybe—just maybe—she can decide for herself what that name will mean.

With that thought, she finally moves away from her desk, the weight of her own hesitation still heavy but somehow more bearable. Whatever comes next, she will face it as herself, not as her mother’s shadow. It is not the clarity she hoped for, but it is a start.

———

Mel stands at the edge of the ballroom. She watches the sea of faces, smiling and laughing as if the world hadn’t tilted on its axis mere months ago. She knows this game well; she played it for years under her mother’s shadow, and for a time, she had mastered it. But now, the pretense feels heavier, harder to carry.

The event is a polished affair, all shining crystal and muted conversation, the kind of gathering that Piltover hosts when it wants to convince itself everything is fine. The aftermath of war has not left the city unscathed, but its’ elite are experts at painting over cracks with gold.

Across the room, Caitlyn stands straighter than usual, the lines of her uniform impeccable even in her off-duty hours. She’s avoided Mel for most of the evening, nodding politely when their paths crossed but never lingering. Mel had noticed, of course. She always notices when someone is holding something back.

So when Caitlyn finally approaches her, her movements measured but determined, Mel isn’t surprised.

“Councilor Medarda,” Caitlyn says, her voice quieter than usual, but still steady.

“I believe we are past titles at this point, Caitlyn,” Mel’s smile is polite, though she already knows this isn’t just a social call. “You’ve been avoiding me all evening. I was beginning to wonder if I’d offended you.”

Caitlyn hesitates, her hands clasped in front of her like she’s steadying herself. “I wanted to speak with you. Privately, if possible.”

Mel arches an eyebrow but gestures toward the balcony just beyond the gilded doors. “Lead the way.”

The air outside is cooler, the hum of conversation muffled by the glass doors. Caitlyn exhales, running a hand through her hair, and Mel waits. She’s learned that silence is often the best way to coax the truth from someone.

“I’m resigning,” Caitlyn says at last, the words clipped but soft, as if she’s been carrying them for too long.

Mel blinks, the confession catching her off guard. Of all the things she expected, this wasn’t one of them.

“You’re leaving the council?” Mel asks, her voice carefully neutral.

“Yes.” Caitlyn looks out over the city, her expression taut. “The war is over, and I’ve done what I set out to do.”

Mel tilts her head, studying Caitlyn’s profile. There’s something in her posture, a weight that hasn’t lifted even with the war’s end. “And what will you do, then? Return to the Enforcers?”

“Well,” Caitlyn’s answer is immediate, and she shakes her head. “I don’t know yet. But I can’t keep sitting in that chamber, pretending I belong there. It’s not where I can do the most good.”

Mel takes a slow sip of her drink, considering her words carefully. “You’ve made a significant impact, Caitlyn. Surely that counts for something.”

“It does.” Caitlyn looks at her then, blue eyes steady and unflinching. “But I’m not built for politics. I can’t maneuver like you can, or convince people with a look. And honestly, I’m tired of trying.”

Mel sets her glass down on the balcony’s edge. “So, why come to me with this?”

Caitlyn hesitates, then takes a step closer. “Because if I leave, I need to know someone will stay. Someone who actually cares about making things better.”

Mel’s laugh is soft, almost bitter. “And you think that’s me?”

“I know it’s you.” Caitlyn’s voice sharpens, her gaze unwavering. “You’ve fought for Zaun in ways no one expected. You’ve challenged the council more than anyone else, and you’ve made them listen. If you leave now, all of that work—everything we’ve tried to build—it’ll fall apart.”

For a moment, Mel says nothing. The weight of Caitlyn’s words settles over her, heavy and unyielding. She’s spent weeks questioning her place, wondering if Piltover’s council is where she belongs, if her mother’s shadow will ever truly fade.

“I never intended to stay forever,” Mel admits, her tone quieter now. “I thought once the war was over, I might leave. Start somewhere new.”

“I get that.” Caitlyn’s voice softens, her posture easing. “But starting over doesn’t mean you have to leave everything behind. You’ve done more for Piltover than most people realize, and I think you still have more to give.”

Mel looks back out at the city, its lights glittering against the night. The thought of staying feels both daunting and necessary, a choice she hadn’t fully considered until now.

The silence feels heavier after Caitlyn’s words, her plea still hanging in the air. Mel stands motionless, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon of Piltover, bright with opulence. The city has always been a machine, grinding forward relentlessly, indifferent to the lives it consumes.

Her hand brushes the cool stone of the railing, grounding herself. She doesn’t look at Caitlyn when she finally speaks.

“It’s not so simple,” she says, her voice calm but laced with exhaustion.

“It never is,” Caitlyn replies, taking a step closer, the determination in her voice unyielding. “But we can’t abandon what we’ve built. If you leave now, Mel, everything will crumble.”

The faint hum of music drifts from the ballroom behind them, but neither woman acknowledges it. Mel lets Caitlyn’s words settle, the echo of them pressing against her already fragile resolve.

“What about you?” Mel finally turns her head, her golden eyes sharp. “You’re leaving the council. You’ve made your choice.”

Caitlyn flinches slightly at the directness, but she squares her shoulders. “I know you’re the only one who can finish what we started. You understand this city in a way the rest of them don’t.”

Mel exhales slowly, her gaze hardening. “I’ve done more listening than I care to admit, Caitlyn. To the council, to the people, to the ghosts of my mother and what she wanted me to become. And you expect me to just keep enduring it?”

Caitlyn’s lips press into a thin line. For a moment, it seems like she might back down, but then she speaks again, her voice quieter but firm.

“It’s what Jayce would have wanted.” She whispers.

The words hit like a crack of thunder, cutting through the tension in the air. Mel freezes, her hand tightening against the railing as her jaw clenches. Slowly, she turns to face Caitlyn fully, her expression unreadable but her eyes blazing.

“That is out of line.” Mel says, her voice low and controlled, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it.

Caitlyn looks startled but doesn’t retreat. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.” Mel’s tone sharpens, cutting her off. “You thought invoking his name would guilt me into staying. Don’t think I don’t see through that.”

Caitlyn’s face flushes, her posture stiffening defensively. “I only said it because I know how much he believed in you. He thought—”

“Don’t presume to know what he thought,” Mel snaps, her voice rising. “You didn’t see him the way I did. You didn’t see the weight he carried, the compromises he made, the ideals he sacrificed. He believed in many things, Caitlyn, but he wasn’t naive enough to think any of us could fix this city alone.”

Caitlyn’s mouth opens as if to argue, but Mel doesn’t give her the chance.

“And don’t you dare use him as a bargaining chip in your arguments,” Mel continues, her voice trembling slightly now, though she keeps her composure. “You don’t get to wield his memory like a weapon. Not with me.”

The air between them crackles with tension, the warmth of the city night doing nothing to soften the chill that’s settled between them. Caitlyn finally drops her gaze, her lips pressing together in a thin line.

“I’m sorry,” she says after a moment, her voice quieter. “That wasn’t fair.”

Mel doesn’t respond immediately. She turns back toward the railing, her eyes scanning the cityscape below, as if searching for something to tether herself to.

“I don’t need his memory to guide me,” she says at last, her voice softer now, but still firm. “And I certainly don’t need you to remind me of what he might have wanted.”

Caitlyn hesitates, then nods. “You’re right. I was out of line.”

There’s a pause, heavy and uncomfortable. The faint sounds of laughter and clinking glasses drift through the glass doors behind them, a stark contrast to the tension on the balcony.

“I just… I just want what’s best for Piltover,” Caitlyn says, her voice almost pleading.

Mel sighs, the anger ebbing from her shoulders as she turns back to her, her expression still guarded but less harsh. “We all want what’s best, Caitlyn. But the question is whose version of ‘best’ we’re willing to fight for. And that’s not a choice I take lightly.”

Caitlyn nods slowly, understanding but still looking troubled. “For what it’s worth,” she says quietly, “I do believe in you.”

Caitlyn doesn’t leave the balcony immediately. Instead, she stops a few steps away from Mel, hands gripping the edge of the glass doorframe as though it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her voice cuts through the night air, quiet but weighted.

“I’m not a leader,” she says, without turning back. “Not really. And I’ve… twisted things. As the head of my house, as Enforcer, as part of the council. I’ve made mistakes that no leader would make.”

Mel stiffens but doesn’t interrupt. Her green gaze remains fixed on Caitlyn’s back, reading the way her shoulders tense and relax as though she’s forcing herself to go on.

“I told myself I was doing what was necessary,” Caitlyn continues, her voice faltering slightly. “For Piltover. For Zaun. For the people I care about. But the truth is… I don’t think I was ever cut out for this.”

She turns now, slowly, to meet Mel’s eyes. Her expression is raw, unguarded in a way that feels almost foreign. “When I took over House Kiramman, I thought I’d find a way to fix things. To balance what my family stood for with what I believed in. But the more I tried, the more it all fell apart. And every time it did, I doubled down, thinking that maybe, if I just pushed harder, it would work.”

Caitlyn steps closer, her voice tightening with something like regret. “It’s not that I didn’t care. I cared too much. I cared so much that I couldn’t see what I was doing. To myself. To others. And when it all went wrong, I didn’t own up to it—I just found new ways to justify it.”

The admission hangs in the air, brittle and unpolished. Mel watches her, silent, her own mask of cool composure slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of something unreadable.

“What I meant before,” Caitlyn says, “about Jayce… He always saw things more clearly than I did. He wasn’t perfect—far from it—but he could see people. He saw who they were, not who they wanted to be. And he saw it in us.”

“In us?” Mel’s voice is quiet, tinged with skepticism, but there’s no edge to it.

Caitlyn nods, her grip tightening on the glass railing. “He saw that I don’t have what it takes to lead. Not in the way Piltover needs. And I hated him for that, sometimes, because it felt like he was saying I wasn’t enough. But he wasn’t wrong. I can’t do what you do, Mel.”

Mel arches an eyebrow but says nothing, waiting for Caitlyn to continue.

“He always believed in you,” Caitlyn says. “Even when he didn’t say it outright, I could see it. He saw that strength in you—that clarity, that ability to see the bigger picture and act on it, even when it wasn’t easy. He admired that. I think he wished he had more of it himself.”

Mel exhales slowly, her eyes narrowing slightly. “And you? What do you see?”

Caitlyn hesitates, her lips parting as though she’s unsure of how to answer. But then she straightens, her chin lifting slightly as she meets Mel’s gaze head-on.

“I see someone who can do what I can’t,” she says. “Someone who doesn’t just fight for what’s right, but who knows how to make others believe in it, too. I see a leader. And I see someone who doesn’t need me or anyone else telling her what to do.”

Mel blinks, surprised, but quickly masks it with a small, sardonic smile. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Kiramman.”

“It’s not flattery,” Caitlyn says, her tone firm but not unkind. “It’s the truth. And you can hate me for using Jayce’s name if you want, but I said it because I know he’d want you to know that he believed in you. And so do I.”

For a moment, the only sound is the distant hum of the city below. Mel’s fingers tap lightly against the railing, her gaze drifting toward the horizon as she processes Caitlyn’s words.

Finally, she lets out a soft, resigned sigh. “You’re still out of line, Caitlyn,” she murmurs, though there’s no real bite in her tone.

Caitlyn offers a faint smile, stepping back toward the door. “I usually am.”

The city remains the same—alive, unyielding. Mel watches Caitlyn stiffen, her shoulders squaring as if bracing for a blow. It’s an instinct she knows well, one she’s seen countless times in Piltover’s halls of power. But here, on the balcony, under the muted glow of the city lights, it’s harder to summon the sharp-edged authority Caitlyn wears like armor.

Mel considers her for a moment, studying the tension in her frame, the way her hands fidget just slightly at her sides. “And how are things going with Violet?” she asks, her tone deliberately neutral.

Caitlyn’s reaction is immediate, though subtle—her lips part, and her eyes flicker with surprise before she recovers, schooling her expression into something guarded. “It’s Vi. And we’re fine,” she says, but the word hangs hollow between them.

Mel arches a brow, unimpressed. “Fine,” she echoes, her voice laced with quiet skepticism. “The diplomatic answer.”

Caitlyn’s cheeks flush faintly, a crack in her otherwise composed exterior. She shifts her weight, looking anywhere but at Mel. “It’s complicated,” she admits, her voice tight.

Mel hums softly, the sound carrying a note of amusement. “Complicated,” she repeats, leaning her hip against the railing and crossing her arms. “That’s one way to put it.” She lets her gaze drift back to the city below, giving Caitlyn the illusion of reprieve while she gathers her thoughts.

She turns her head slightly, catching Caitlyn’s eye. “You and Vi,” she says, her tone thoughtful, almost idle. “You’re not so different. Both stubborn, both unrelenting when it comes to protecting what you care about. But that kind of fire…” She trails off, gesturing faintly with one hand, as if illustrating the point. “It burns hot. And if you’re not careful, it burns out.”

Caitlyn doesn’t respond immediately, and Mel can see the flicker of emotions crossing her face—defensiveness, unease, something close to pain. She waits, letting the silence stretch, because this isn’t something Caitlyn can wriggle out of with practiced platitudes or well-rehearsed retorts.

“I’m not trying to lecture you,” Mel adds after a moment, her voice softening just enough to lose its sharpness. “But I’ve seen what happens when people refuse to acknowledge the cracks in their foundation. You can’t build something lasting if the base isn’t steady.”

Caitlyn exhales, the sound heavy and reluctant. “What would you suggest?” she asks, her tone tinged with frustration, though it lacks the venom Mel expects.

Mel straightens, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve before meeting Caitlyn’s gaze directly. “Figure out what you want,” she says simply. “Not what the people expect of you, or what you think you owe her. What you want. And then be honest about it—with yourself and with her.”

She doesn’t wait for Caitlyn’s response, doesn’t push further. The words are enough for now, a seed planted. Mel turns her gaze back to the city, her expression unreadable, and lets Caitlyn wrestle with the weight of it on her own.

“I want to propose,” Caitlyn says, her voice steady, but Mel can hear the tremor beneath it. “To secure what we have before it slips through my fingers. But,” She trails off, exhaling a breath that’s more a sigh than anything else. “It feels too soon. After everything with Jinx it feels like… like I’m taking advantage of the quiet that’s left behind.”

Mel doesn’t respond immediately, watching Caitlyn as she speaks. Her words are measured but weighted, like stones she’s been carrying for too long. It’s a vulnerability Mel rarely sees in her, and it holds her attention in a way she doesn’t entirely expect.

“Do you think it’s too soon,” Mel finally says, her tone even. “Or are you afraid of what it might mean if it’s not?”

Caitlyn glances over at her, brow furrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

Mel takes a step closer, leaning one elbow against the railing as she studies Caitlyn. “Fear can disguise itself as caution,” she says, her voice calm but pointed. “You say it’s about timing, about respecting the weight of what happened with her sister. But is that really what’s holding you back? Or is it that you’re afraid of what Vi might say—or what she might not say?”

Caitlyn opens her mouth to respond but falters, her lips pressing into a thin line. Mel doesn’t press further, letting the silence linger.

“I just… I don’t want her to think I’m trying to replace what we’ve lost,” Caitlyn says after a moment, her voice softer now, tinged with something close to shame. “I don’t want her to think I’m rushing into this just because I’m scared of losing her too.”

Mel considers this, her gaze thoughtful. “Have you told her that?”

Caitlyn shakes her head. “It feels selfish. She’s already carrying so much, and I—”

“You’re carrying things too,” Mel interrupts, her voice firm but not unkind. “And you’re doing yourself and her a disservice by pretending otherwise.”

Caitlyn turns to face her fully now, her expression conflicted. “You think I should just lay it all out there?”

Mel’s lips curve into a faint, knowing smile. “I think you should be honest. Not just about what you want, but about why you want it. Vi isn’t fragile, Caitlyn. She’s been through hell, but so have you. You’re not going to break her by being honest. If anything, it might be what keeps you both together.”

Caitlyn doesn’t reply right away, her gaze dropping to the ground as she mulls over Mel’s words. The city’s distant noise fills the quiet between them, a hum of life and movement far removed from the stillness of their conversation.

Mel straightens, brushing a hand over the silk of her gown. “Propose if you’re ready,” she says, her voice softer now but still steady. “Not because you’re afraid of losing her, but because you’re sure she’s who you want to stand beside. The rest will fall into place—or it won’t. But that’s the risk you take when you care about someone.”

Caitlyn looks up at her, searching her face for something she isn’t sure she’ll find. Mel doesn’t flinch under the scrutiny, her gaze steady and unyielding.

After a long moment, Caitlyn nods, the motion small but resolute. “I’ll think about it,” she says, her voice quiet but carrying a note of conviction.

Mel watches her for a moment longer, then turns her gaze back to the city below. “Good,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “It’s about time someone in this place did.”

Caitlyn hesitates for a moment, the words coming slow and careful, like she’s weighing their impact as they leave her lips. “What about you?” she asks, her voice softer now. “You and Jayce? How did you two—how did you decide what you wanted?”

Mel stiffens, her hand brushing the balcony rail. For a moment, her polished veneer cracks, and something raw flickers across her face. She exhales through her nose, her golden gaze fixed on the city below, shimmering like a jewel but as fractured as the people who built it.

“Jayce and I,” Mel starts, her tone measured, “we didn’t decide anything, not really. We saw each other for what we could be, rather than what we were.” She pauses, the words settling in the space between them. “It was intoxicating, that potential. He had this boundless energy, this vision for a brighter future. I admired it, even envied it. And I think he saw in me focus, clarity. The things he thought he lacked.”

Caitlyn watches her, waiting, but Mel doesn’t turn to meet her gaze. Her hands rest on the railing now, steady, but there’s a tension in her posture, a rigidity that betrays the calm tone of her voice.

“We pushed each other,” Mel continues. “But not always in the ways that mattered. We were so focused on what we could become—what we could achieve—that we forgot to see each other as we were. Flawed. Human.”

She leans forward slightly, her fingers curling against the railing. “I loved him, in my way. And I believe he loved me, in his. But we were never quite right. There was always the Council, the Hextech, the expectations. We became symbols to each other, not people.”

Caitlyn shifts uncomfortably, unsure whether to say something or let the silence stretch. Mel spares her the decision.

“I don’t regret it,” Mel says, her voice firmer now, though the weight of it is undeniable. “But I learned something from it. Love, real love, isn’t about potential. It’s about seeing someone for who they are, in all their brilliance and all their flaws, and choosing them anyway.”

Her gaze shifts then, finally meeting Caitlyn’s. It’s sharp but not unkind, full of the weight of her own lessons. “You don’t need to be perfect, Caitlyn. Neither does Vi. You don’t need to be something bigger than you are. Just decide if you’re willing to see each other as you are and choose each other anyway.”

Caitlyn looks away, her jaw tightening as she absorbs Mel’s words. The city hums beneath them, oblivious to their private reckoning.

“And you?” Caitlyn ventures after a moment, her voice quieter now. “Do you see someone for who they are? Do you choose them?”

Mel’s lips twitch, almost into a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I chose Piltover,” she says simply. “For now.”

The answer feels both honest and evasive, and Caitlyn doesn’t press further. Instead, they stand in silence, the city lights flickering below, their thoughts heavy but unspoken.

———

The council chamber is thick with tension, voices rising and clashing like the storm brewing outside. Piltover and Zaun—once bitter enemies, now in the aftermath of a war that has left both nations scarred—sit at the table, each council member fighting for their vision of what comes next.

Mel’s posture is calm, but her mind is a whirlwind. The weight of her mother’s death is still a heavy presence in her chest, and now, with the war’s aftermath hanging over them, the task of rebuilding feels almost impossible. Not just the cities, but everything—trust, alliances, lives shattered in ways that might never heal. 

She watches the councilors around her, their words sharp and calculated, each one looking to secure a piece of the future for themselves, and for their nation.

“It’s clear that both cities need assistance,” Silas—a retired professor from the academy—says, his voice low but firm. “Piltover, with its’ resources, could offer technology and infrastructure, while Zaun… Zaun needs medical supplies, housing, basic utilities. We need to rebuild from the ground up.” He glances at Caitlyn, as though to gain her approval, but she remains quiet, her jaw clenched in thought.

Shoola, leans forward, her voice harsh but not unreasoning. “Zaun doesn’t need your charity, Silas. They need their sovereignty restored.” Her words are heavy with distrust, and Mel can see the way her hands are clenched, as though holding herself back from lashing out. “We need to focus on our own first.”

A ripple of agreement spreads through the room, but Silas waves it away, dismissing their concerns with a quick gesture. “I’m not talking about control, Shoola,” he says coolly. “I’m talking about helping to rebuild something that benefits both of us. It’s not charity if you’re part of the effort.”

“This,” Mel interjects, her voice cutting through the rising argument, “isn’t a matter of rebuilding bridges, it’s about rebuilding lives. And Zaun has been forgotten for too long—this time, it’s about equal footing, not Piltover trying to save face.”

“Equal footing?” Shoola sneers. “What are you suggesting? That we waste our resources on them, while our people crumble?”

Mel doesn’t flinch at the accusation. She knows the truth, and it tastes bitter. “I’m suggesting that we actually listen to each other,” she says, her voice steady. “We don’t leave one city to suffer for the other to flourish. There’s no rebuilding without addressing the rifts we’ve created between us.”

Caitlyn shifts in her seat, her voice soft but carrying the weight of her position. “We can’t keep doing this, throwing victimization around,” she says, her eyes meeting Shoola’s. “Our nations, they’re both scarred, both broken. The question is, how do we heal that?”

Sevika, leaning back in her chair, hasn’t spoken a word yet, but Mel knows she’s paying attention. Surely, she is ever the skeptic, knowing how this dance goes. Piltover will offer their scraps, Zaun will take them grudgingly, and nothing will change.

“How do we heal?” Mel echoes Caitlyn’s words, turning them over in her mind. The answer is simple and devastating at once. “By giving people in both cities what they’ve never had: a chance. A real chance to rebuild their lives without anyone holding a leash.” She meets Caitlyn’s gaze, her voice firm. “That means true autonomy for Zaun. We can’t keep playing at ‘helping’ if we’re just going to put them under Piltover’s thumb again.”

The room goes silent for a moment, as though they’re all waiting for someone to deny it, to call her out. But no one does. Mel watches Caitlyn, sees the flicker of agreement behind her eyes, and then shifts her gaze to Shoola, who nods once, sharply, in quiet acknowledgment.

“We’ll need resources,” Silas says, his tone quieter now, resigned. “Technology, medicine, everything I just mentioned. Zaun cannot survive without outside help.”

“Then let it be a partnership,” Mel says, her voice hardening. “Not charity, not a handout, but a partnership. Piltover can offer its’ resources, and Zaun will offer its’ innovation, its’ manpower, its’ heart. Only then will we have something that lasts.”

The council room is quiet again, the tension palpable. Everyone’s thinking, weighing the risks, the costs. The future, so uncertain and fragile.

“Council Medarda is right,” Caitlyn speaks up after a beat, her voice gaining confidence. “This can’t be one-sided. We have to treat Zaun as an equal, not a burden.” She looks toward Shoola. “But this is more than just talk. We need to act. Both cities need to understand the effort it will take to rebuild from this war.”

Mel nods, her gaze still fixed on the table. “Actions will speak louder than anything we say here.”

There’s a long, pregnant silence before Shoola breaks it with a single word, “Alright.” It’s not an agreement, exactly, but it’s not a rejection either.

For a moment, Mel wonders if they’ve found the smallest sliver of hope. Maybe this time, they can rebuild something different. Something better. But as the meeting continues, she knows this won’t be easy—nothing worthwhile ever is.

Caitlyn’s voice breaks through the tension in the room,. “I have an idea,” she says, her eyes scanning the room as the council falls silent, waiting. “What if, instead of talking at Zaun from our seats in Piltover, we actually go there? A few of us, once a month. Not as officials or politicians, but as people who want to help. We meet with the people, talk to them, ask them what they need.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence before the murmurs start. The councilors glance at one another, skeptical but intrigued. It’s a foreign idea to most of them, especially when it involves leaving the comfort of Piltover’s walls and stepping into the chaotic, dangerous streets of Zaun.

Sevika leans forward, her expression unreadable. “You think Zaun’s going to welcome you with open arms?” she asks, her voice low and skeptical. “You think after everything, they’re going to just let you waltz in like you own the place?”

Caitlyn doesn’t flinch. She knows the history, knows the deep resentment between the two cities. But her eyes are firm, unwavering. “It’s not about owning anything,” she replies. “It’s about listening, really listening. No promises, no grand speeches. Just showing up and showing them that we care.”

Mel’s gaze is sharp as she considers the proposal. It’s risky, certainly—anyone with half a mind knows the tension between Piltover and Zaun isn’t going to dissipate overnight. But there’s something about Caitlyn’s suggestion that resonates with her. 

For a moment, she feels the possibility of something more than politics in the air. Maybe Caitlyn is onto something.

“We can’t just show up and expect them to open up to us,” she says, her voice thoughtful. “They’ll be wary. This idea could backfire.”

Caitlyn nods, acknowledging the risk. “I know. But if we don’t try something different, nothing will ever change. We have to be willing to take that first step.” She turns her gaze to Shoola, her voice softer now. “The people in Zaun are not the enemy, Shoola. They’re victims, just like us. We’ve all been caught in a system that only benefits a few, and we can’t rebuild anything until we’re willing to work together.”

Shoola’s eyes narrow, but she says nothing at first. The weight of Caitlyn’s words hangs in the air, and for a long moment, the only sound is the faint hum of tension in the room. Then, almost reluctantly, Shoola speaks.

“Talking to them will not change things,” she says, her tone sharper than she probably intends. “A few nice words and a couple of trips will not make Zaun forget.”

Caitlyn’s expression doesn’t waver. “No, I don’t think it will fix everything. But it’s a start. A real one.”

Mel looks around the table, seeing the mixed expressions of the other council members. Some are hesitant, others seem more intrigued. But there’s something in the air, a shift, a crack in the wall they’ve built between the two cities.

“If we are going to do this,” Mel says, her voice commanding the room, “then we need to go with open minds and open hearts. If we’re serious about rebuilding, it starts with understanding.”

Caitlyn gives her a small nod, grateful for Mel’s support.

Shoola exhales sharply, a quiet grunt of frustration slipping out. “This better be worth it.”

Mel meets her gaze, steady and unyielding. “It will be.”

Caitlyn stands at the head of the room, her posture poised, but there’s a trace of uncertainty in her eyes as she looks to Sevika, seated at the far end of the long table. “Council Sevika,” she calls, her voice steady but with an edge of vulnerability, “I’d like to hear your thoughts on this.”

The room falls into an almost expectant silence. The eyes of the councilors flicker between Caitlyn and Sevika, some of them intrigued, others impatient. Mel watches quietly, her gaze shifting between them, aware of the delicate dynamic at play.

Sevika doesn’t respond right away. She sits back in her chair, her arms crossed. Her gaze flits briefly to the others around the table—their polished faces, their practiced expressions, the subtle smirks of those who believe they already know how this will end. The ones who will dismiss whatever she has to say, regardless of how much truth it holds.

She clenches her jaw, the fingers of her mechanical arm tapping absently on the wood of the table.

“I don’t know if I have anything useful to add,” she mutters, voice low but still cutting through the silence. She looks at Caitlyn for a moment before turning her gaze toward the far wall, her words more for herself than anyone else. “This place…” She shakes her head, exhaling a sharp breath. “You can ask me, but it’s not like I’ll change anything.”

Caitlyn doesn’t give up so easily. She leans forward slightly, her expression sincere. “I’m not asking for your blessing. I need your perspective. You know Zaun. You know the people. What do we need to do to make this work?”

“We’re not going to fix anything by just listening,” she finally says, her voice rough with frustration. “Zaun isn’t going to care about your promises, Caitlyn. They’ve heard it all before. They don’t trust Piltover, and for good reason. It’s a waste of time to keep pretending like some pretty words and visits are going to change that.”

The council shifts in their seats, a few members exchanging glances. The dismissive looks are quick, but not subtle. Sevika can practically hear the thought process running through their minds: Not another one of these speeches from her.

Caitlyn’s face tightens slightly, but she doesn’t back down. “But we can’t ignore them. That’s why I’m suggesting this. Real, face-to-face contact. No middlemen, no bureaucracy—just… us, showing up. Making sure they’re heard.”

Sevika scoffs, her eyes flashing with a bitterness that hasn’t dulled. “Yeah, because Piltover’s finest showing up on their doorsteps is exactly what Zaun needs. You’ll just be more of the same. You’ll never get through to them as long as you’re wearing your Piltover badge.”

Mel watches the exchange closely, her lips pressing together in a tight line. She can see the truth in Sevika’s words—too much of Piltover’s approach has been about imposing, not listening. But it’s clear that the council doesn’t see it the same way. A few members are already starting to murmur, eyes glazing over, no longer interested in what Sevika has to say.

One councilor, a younger man with sharp features, leans forward and sneers. “We’ve heard this before. The whole ‘us vs. them’ argument. We can’t let Zaun continue like this. We need to control it, not coddle it.”

Caitlyn’s eyes flash, but before she can respond, Mel cuts in.

“Control? That’s been the issue all along,” Mel says, her voice smooth but firm. “If we want peace, we need trust, and that’s not going to come from pretending we have all the answers.”

Sevika’s gaze shifts to Mel, her lips curling slightly in something that might have been approval. Her voice cuts through the murmur of the room like a knife. Her tone is sharp, filled with frustration that’s been building over the course of the meeting. 

“Why ask for my opinion if you’re just going to blatantly ignore it?” Her words hang in the air, and for a moment, the entire room falls silent, the weight of the question settling over the council members like a thick fog.

Caitlyn looks at Sevika, her brow furrowing, but Mel can see the hesitation in her eyes. She knows what’s coming next—the polite dismissal, the shifting of focus to something more convenient. The typical response to someone who doesn’t fit into the perfect, well-groomed image of a councilor.

Sevika leans forward slightly, her gaze piercing as she addresses the council at large. “You want change? You want to rebuild Zaun? Fine. But this is just theater, right? You’re more interested in making yourselves look good, in spouting off platitudes, than actually listening to what people like me have to say. So, why bother?”

A few of the council members shift uncomfortably, but the man who spoke earlier—one of the younger, more ambitious ones—leans forward, his eyes narrowing. “That is unfair. We’re trying to find common ground here.”

Sevika snorts, the derisive sound echoing in the room. “Common ground? You really think you’re going to find common ground by offering empty gestures and talking down to people who’ve been crushed under the weight of Piltover’s control for years?” She pauses, meeting each of their eyes, her gaze hard and unforgiving. “You’re too busy patting yourselves on the back to see the damage you’ve done. And you sure as hell don’t care what people like me have to say about it.”

The room is tense now, the silence stretching long enough that Sevika can almost hear the collective breath being held by the others. Caitlyn glances at her, then to the rest of the council, the weight of Sevika’s words hanging in the air. It’s clear she wants to respond, to make some defense of their actions, but Sevika’s question has landed too heavily for her to easily brush off.

“I asked because your perspective matters,” Caitlyn says slowly, her voice softer than before. “You have a knowledge we don’t. A perspective from the ground level. That’s why I want to hear it.”

Sevika raises an eyebrow, her lips curling into a bitter scowl. “And yet you still don’t listen.”

There’s a pause, as if everyone in the room is processing her words, trying to figure out how to move forward, how to break the silence that Sevika’s created. 

Sevika stands up abruptly, the scrape of her chair against the floor sounding like the final punctuation of her statement. “If you want my advice, you have to earn it,” she says, her voice low but steady. “And right now, none of you have earned a damn thing.”

With that, she turns and walks out of the room, leaving the council to grapple with her words. The weight of her departure lingers, and Mel can tell that even though she knows they’ll likely forget her words in a matter of days, Sevika doesn’t care. For now, at least, she’s made it clear that she’s done meddling between the two nations.

But then the council moves on. They start talking of another topic, the suggestions of others quickly overtaking the room. Their words are empty, rehearsed, driven by the same old policies. 

———

Sevika’s eyes are fixed on the amber liquid swirling in her glass, but her mind is far from the present. It drifts back to a time when things were simpler—or at least, more familiar.

Silco’s face flickers in her memory, sharper than the edges of the glass she’s holding. His cold gaze, the way he could make anyone feel like they were his closest ally, even when they weren’t. It’s been months, and yet, every time she thinks she’s buried him deep enough, he resurfaces. The shadows he cast over her life still linger, curling around her thoughts when she’s not paying attention.

And Jinx, the chaos that never quite left. The destructive force that was both a part of Silco and yet so much more. The girl who loved and lost and never knew how to find her way back. 

Sevika takes a slow sip of her drink, but it’s the sting of alcohol that brings her back to the present, not the warmth of the memories. Jinx is gone—lost to her own madness, to her own pain, a casualty of a world that never cared enough to understand.

It doesn’t matter how many drinks she has, how much the whiskey burns on its way down. Sevika can still hear Silco’s voice, the weight of his words pressing down on her chest. She can still feel the pull of his ambition, his drive, the fire that kept them both moving forward. But what was it all for? What had they accomplished in the end? More scars? More destruction?

She shakes her head, staring down at her drink as if it could provide some answer. The truth is, she never really had a choice. She did what she had to do to survive, to keep moving forward. But now, in the quiet of the bar, with nothing but the sound of her own thoughts for company, she feels the weight of that survival pressing in on her.

Her hand clenches around the glass, her knuckles white against the smooth surface. Why did Silco have to die in the way he did? And why did Jinx have to disappear into herself, leaving behind only echoes of the girl she once was? She had always thought they’d find a way back to each other, that somehow they’d all rise together from the ashes of Piltover’s rejection. But now, with nothing left but these memories, it feels impossible.

The bartender glances her way, and Sevika forces a smile, but it’s tight, unconvincing. She doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to explain why the weight of the world feels like it’s crushing her chest. The last thing she needs is pity.

With a grunt, she sets the glass down a little too hard, the sound of it against the wood jolting her out of her thoughts. She’s tired of feeling this way. Tired of holding onto a legacy that wasn’t hers to carry anymore.

Another drink. Another moment to forget.

But the thought lingers in the back of her mind—what’s next for her?

And the answer, as always, is uncertain.

She leans back in her seat, her glass now empty. She watches the liquid swirl in the bottle the bartender is refilling, the dull reflections flickering across her tired face. Her eyes narrow as the question hits her again—What would Silco think of this?

Part of her laughs bitterly at the thought. Silco, the man who built an empire from the dirt, who crushed anyone who stood in his way, would never have imagined her sitting in the shadows of Piltover’s high towers, discussing the fate of Zaun with the very people who’d done nothing but exploit them. 

He would have sneered at the idea, called it a betrayal. In his eyes, the council was nothing but a tool of the enemy—a machine that perpetuated the same systems that kept Zaun broken.

Would he have seen her as weak for even considering it? He had always been about strength, about power. No compromises. No alliances with the enemy. Nothing but dominance. And here she was, a part of that very system, talking about “cooperation” and “rebuilding.” 

Could Silco, the man who held the undercity with an iron fist, really have respected that?

But then again, maybe that’s exactly what he’d wanted for her—to play the game, to climb high enough to tear it all down from the inside. He always had a way of seeing things she couldn’t. He made her believe that there was a place for her in this world, his world, the one he was shaping with every calculated move.

Sevika scoffs, rubbing a hand over her face. What a joke.

She knows that if Silco were still alive, things would be different. He would have made a move by now, taken a stand, crushed Piltover beneath his heel. He wouldn’t be sitting in council chambers, sipping their wine and nodding along with their decisions. 

No, Silco would’ve seen this as an opportunity to take control—not to beg for scraps from the table. But that’s not where she is now, is it?

Her gaze drifts across the dimly lit bar, the low murmur of voices blending into the background. What did he think of her now, if he could see her? Did she disappoint him?

A wave of guilt washes over her, cold and suffocating. She has lived her whole life in the shadow of his ambitions, even after his death. His legacy is a heavy weight she carries on her shoulders, one that forces her to ask herself what kind of person she’s become in the wake of his loss. Has she lost herself in the process of trying to live up to his impossible vision?

Sevik sighs, her eyes flicking to the door of the bar as though looking for an escape. The truth is, she doesn’t know what Silco would’ve thought of her choices. He had always believed in survival—at any cost—but this… this was something different.

She never asked to be a part of the council. She didn’t want to be the one they turned to for advice, or to navigate these tangled alliances with Piltover’s elite. But here she is, and part of her wonders if this is what Silco would have called “playing the long game.” 

Maybe this is how she stays alive, how she keeps a foot in both worlds, without becoming too much of a part of either one.

She takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly as she sets the empty glass down. Maybe she’ll never know what Silco would have thought, but in the end, it doesn’t matter. He’s gone, and all she’s left with is the question of what to do with herself now.

Sevika’s fingers drum steadily on the bar, her gaze fixed on the whiskey glass in front of her. She knew what she was walking into—who she was walking into. But as the days bled into weeks, and the meetings continued to feel like a tightrope act where she was never given the respect she deserved, the cracks in her resolve started to show.

She clenches her jaw, the familiar rush of frustration pushing to the surface again. It wasn’t just the usual cold indifference they had for her background, for being from Zaun. This was different. 

The newer council members—fresh faces, some no older than she was—had already earned more respect than she could ever seem to garner. How the hell did that happen?

They sauntered into the meetings with their polished words, their smooth tactics. They were quick to gain approval from the higher-ups, while Sevika sat in the corner, ignored, always having to fight for any shred of acknowledgment. 

It wasn’t that she wasn’t respected by some—it was that the majority of them, the ones who called the shots, viewed her as nothing more than a token from the undercity. A side player in their plan for power. And the worst part is that she had let it slide, for a while.

But now, she felt like a ghost in a room full of people who thought they knew everything. She had been in this fight longer than most of them. She had seen the war, the bloodshed, the desperation in the streets of Zaun that none of them would ever truly understand. And yet there they were, looking at her like she was still a secondary piece in their carefully constructed puzzle.

“Always the outsider,” she mutters to herself, letting out a short, bitter laugh.

It’s frustrating, but it’s more than that—it’s humiliating. Every time she gives her opinion in a meeting, it’s met with doubt, with sidelong glances, with a quiet but ever-present sense of disregard. As if the moment she opens her mouth, they’re already dismissing her. If she speaks too loudly, if she presses them for real answers, they turn on her. 

And yet, the newer faces somehow glide through with approval. Smooth smiles, well-timed words, and just enough of an air of “understanding” to make the council’s leaders sit up and nod like they actually care.

Sevika lets out a sigh, her fingers wrapping around her glass. The weight of it pulls her down a little. This is the consequence of Silco’s death, of the empire he built. There was no place for her now, not in this world of polished suits and perfect speeches. 

She could still remember the way he had looked at her—like she was more than just a weapon or a tool. He had made her believe she was powerful. But now, all she felt was invisible, left behind by the tide of change that had swept through Piltover while she was too busy trying to hold onto the scraps of what was left.

“Can’t even get the damn respect I deserve in a place I fought to be in,” she mutters, taking a slow sip from her glass.

The bartender glances at her, most likely disturbed at her muttering. She remembers how often she used to poke fun at Jinx for doing the same—for whispering during silences, reacting when there was no provocation—and now here Sevika is, falling to those same old habits.

She had made a choice, she knows. She had chosen survival. But now that she was in the room, fighting to be heard, she couldn’t help but wonder if it was all worth it. She had assumed that being part of the council would mean something more. That, perhaps, it was a stepping stone to change, to something greater for Zaun. 

But as it often turns out, the more she played into their hands, the more she realized she was just another tool in their arsenal.

She’s three drinks in, her thoughts heavy with the weight of Silco’s absence, until she hears the sharp scrape of a chair against the floor beside her. She doesn’t bother to look up—half the people who drink here are ghosts of her past anyway. Still, She wasn’t  expecting company. 

“Didn’t peg you for this place,” the voice says, low and familiar, tinged with something too close to humor to be real.

Her jaw tightens. “What do you want, Skye?”

The woman leans forward, elbows on the table, the leather of her jacket creaking faintly. “What, can’t stop by to see an old boss?”

Sevika turns her head slightly, eyeing her with just enough effort to let her know she isn’t amused. “You didn’t crawl out of the gutters just to say hello. Spill it.”

Skye’s smirk falters. She looks rough—sharper cheekbones, bruised circles under her eyes, and a gauntness that wasn’t there before. Sevika notices the faint twitch in her hands and knows instantly: shimmer. Not surprising, but disappointing all the same.

“It’s bad out there,” Skye says after a pause, her voice lower now, quiet enough to make Sevika finally meet her gaze. “Worse than it’s ever been.”

Sevika tips her glass in her direction before finishing the last of her drink. “Zaun’s always been bad,” she says flatly. “What else is new?”

“No,” Skye presses, leaning closer, her eyes flickering with something like desperation. “I mean it. Factories are shutting down, the Chem-Barons are going to war with each other, and the shimmer labs—they’re everywhere now. Everyone’s making it, selling it. It’s chaos.”

Sevika narrows her eyes but doesn’t respond, letting the words hang in the smoky air between them. 

“You don’t care?” Skye says, and there’s something raw in her voice now, almost accusatory. “No one’s running things anymore. Everyone’s just grabbing what they can.”

Sevika leans back in her seat eyeing Skye with a mixture of curiosity and irritation. “Let me get this straight,” she drawls, tapping her fingers against the counter. “Zaun’s gone to hell in a handbasket, everyone’s fighting each other, and now you’re showing up to tell me about it like I’m gonna do something?”

Skye winces but doesn’t back down, sitting down beside Sevika. “Pretty much.”

“Great,” Sevika mutters, taking out a cigarette. “Just what I needed. A reminder that the place I left in chaos is still chaotic.” She takes out her lighter, pressing on it a few times, until it finally catches a flame. “And what, you think I can just wave my shiny new council seat and make everything better?”

Skye shrugs, but there’s an edge to her tone. “You’re the closest thing we have to someone in charge, Sev. People know you. They trust you.”

“Yeah, well,” Sevika snorts, taking a long drag from the cigarette. “I haven’t exactly been in a hurry to put my neck on the line for them. I’m not Silco. I don’t do this whole ‘leadership’ thing with the same flair.”

“I know that,” Skye insists, her voice urgent. “But right now, people are looking for anything. They’re looking for someone to take control and actually get things done. Silco’s gone. The council’s out of touch. And you? You’re right in the middle of it all. People need a direction.”

Sevika chuckles darkly. “Well, isn’t that convenient? You’re telling me all this because I’m ‘in the middle of it,’ huh? Nice of you to assume I give a damn about what they need.”

Skye leans forward, her eyes locking with Sevika’s. “No, I’m telling you because I’m the one who has to deal with it on the ground. And the ground’s falling apart. You think I’m here because I believe you’ve got some hidden heart of gold waiting to save everyone? Nah. I’m here because you can make a difference. Whether you want to or not.”

Sevika snorts, flicking her fingers in the air dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. The ‘hero’ speech. All I’m hearing is a desperate woman looking for a lifeline.”

“Maybe,” Skye admits with a crooked grin, “but I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think you could actually help. You’re not in charge of anything, Sev, but you could at least make it so the people who are in charge can’t keep ignoring Zaun. And we both know the council won’t do it.”

Sevika blows out a cloud of smoke, eyes narrowing slightly. “So, what? You want me to waltz in there and remind them how bad it is in Zaun? What do you think that’ll do?”

“I know it’s not that easy,” Skye says, the sarcasm slipping from her voice, “but it’s something. They don’t even think about us. That’s the problem. They look at Zaun like it’s some kind of trash heap. You’re their connection, Sev. If you push, they’ll listen.”

Sevika’s lips curl into a half-smile, but it’s more bitter than anything else. “As if they’ll respect me for pushing. The council doesn’t respect anyone who isn’t looking out for their own necks.” She leans back again, arms crossed. “They don’t care about Zaun. They care about the shiny parts of Piltover. That’s the only thing that matters to them.”

Skye stares at her for a long moment, then gives a half-laugh. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing that you’re supposed to be the one who’s not afraid of them.”

Sevika raises an eyebrow, her tone laced with amusement. “Sweet thing, I don’t fear them. I just don’t see the point in playing their game when the rules are rigged. But hey, if you think I’m gonna walk in there and play their pet project, be my guest.”

Skye sits back, folding her arms, but her grin doesn’t fade. “You’re just as stubborn as ever.”

“Yeah,” Sevika mutters with a small smirk. “That’s my charm.” She brings the cigarette to her lips and takes another long drag, her eyes flicking toward the door. “But don’t expect me to turn into some crusader overnight. I’m not here to save Zaun. I’m just trying to survive it.”

She leans back in her seat, her mind still wrestling with Skye’s words. Her fingers curl around her cigarette, knuckles whitening as she thinks about everything she’s said, everything she’s been asked to do. 

“You know,” Skye starts again, her voice a little quieter now, almost like she’s choosing her words carefully, “I wasn’t just talking about the council or Zaun when I said you could help.” She sits down beside Sevika, her gaze not quite meeting hers. “I meant… well, I meant that you don’t have to do this alone.”

Sevika doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she watches the shadows on the walls, her thoughts drifting away from the conversation and toward a place where she can breathe. A place where she isn’t being pulled in a thousand directions.

“You’ve always been a little shit, right?” Skye continues, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “But I get it. You don’t want to carry everyone’s weight.”

Sevika gives a dry laugh, leaning back slightly and rolling her eyes. “You should’ve gotten that memo sooner. I’ve been doing this alone for a long time.”

Skye doesn’t flinch, her voice steady. “Yeah, well, that’s why I’m here now.” She reaches out, resting a hand on Sevika’s arm. “I’m not asking you to take on the whole world tonight, Sev. Just let me be here. Let me stay with you. We both know you’re better with a little company around.”

Sevika doesn’t pull away, but her brow furrows as she turns her gaze to Skye. “What’s your point, Skye?”

She shrugs, the playful sarcasm returning to her voice. “Maybe I just like your company. And maybe… maybe you don’t always have to push everyone away, you know?”

There’s a quiet pause, one that seems to stretch longer than it should. Sevika’s fingers tighten around the cigarette bud again, her thoughts racing in conflicting directions. Part of her wants to walk away, wants to keep her walls up, keep her distance. But another part, the part that’s been buried so long, is tired. Tired of pushing everyone away. Tired of the weight.

Finally, she exhales slowly, the tightness in her chest loosening, if only just a little. “You’re really serious about this, huh?”

“Yeah,” Skye says, her voice soft, almost vulnerable now. “I am.”

Sevika’s eyes flick up from her drink, meeting Skye’s with a look that’s equal parts amused and unimpressed. She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes slightly. “You’re really starting to test my patience, Skye,” she says, her voice firm.

Skye raises an eyebrow, but Sevika can see the flicker of uncertainty behind her usual confident facade. “What? You don’t think I can handle you for one night?”

Sevika leans forward, slowly exhaling the smoke on Skye’s face, who curls her lips in distaste, turning to cough into her elbow. “It’s not about that,” Sevika mutters, her tone softening just enough for Skye to hear. “I’m not in the mood for distractions.”

Skye’s smile falters just slightly, but she recovers quickly, leaning in a little closer. “Hey, no pressure. But you could use a break. You’ve been carrying a lot.” There’s a subtle vulnerability in her voice now, almost like a slip of the mask she usually wears.

Sevika doesn’t respond immediately, her eyes fixed on the table as she considers the words. She takes another sip from her glass, chewing on her thoughts. “Maybe I’ve carried too much already,” she says, voice low, almost to herself. “But that’s not something I need from you, Skye. Or anyone.”

Skye leans back, her expression softening as she watches Sevika. “I just… I just thought you might want to feel something other than the weight.”

Sevika finally meets her gaze, her eyes sharp and steady. “Not tonight.”

Skye nods, her smile returning, though it’s tinged with understanding. “Okay. Fair enough.” She takes a breath, exhaling with a casual shrug. “I’m not going anywhere. But you’re right about one thing, Sev: you can’t carry it all by yourself forever.”

Sevika just nods, her gaze flicking briefly to the door again before turning back to Skye. “Go home,” she mutters, but she’s already lost in thought again, the heaviness of everything pressing down on her once more.

———

Sevika sits back in her chair, arms crossed tightly across her chest as she watches Caitlyn stand at the head of the table, the council chamber buzzing with murmurs and disbelief. The tension is palpable. She doesn’t need to speak to know what everyone’s thinking.

But Caitlyn stands firm, her posture straight, a quiet resolve in her eyes. “I’m resigning from my position on the council,” she says, her voice clear, cutting through the room like a blade.

The shock is immediate. Several council members exchange glances, their expressions a mix of disbelief and frustration. “You can’t be serious, miss Kiramman,” one of them speaks up, his voice edged with anger. “We need you. This is the worst time for this.”

Caitlyn doesn’t flinch. She simply nods, her gaze sweeping over the room, steady and unwavering. “I’ve thought about this long and hard,” she says, her voice calm. “I’ve done everything I can, but I can’t keep pretending I have control over something I never fully understood. I’m not fit to lead this way anymore.”

Mel watches Caitlyn closely, her expression unreadable. Sevika notices the shift in Mel’s posture, the way her fingers curl lightly around the armrest of her chair. She’s usually so composed, but something about this—about Caitlyn stepping down—seems to affect her.

“They need you,” another council member argues. “Piltover needs your guidance. The people—”

“I need to focus on my own life,” Caitlyn interrupts, her voice firmer now. “I’ve lost sight of that in the chaos. I’m not the person I thought I was when I first joined this council.”

Sevika watches as the council members exchange glances, the air thick with tension. They want her to stay, to keep pushing forward, but anyone else would see that Caitlyn is resolute. There’s no stopping her.

The room falls silent for a moment before a quieter voice cuts through the stillness. It’s Callum, someone who’s been around long enough to understand when a decision’s been made. “You’ll leave us in a difficult position,” he says softly, his words carrying the weight of truth. “But if this is what you need, we can’t force you to stay.”

Sevika leans back, arms still crossed, her eyes narrowing. She can’t help but respect Caitlyn’s decision, even if it’s one she doesn’t fully understand. It’s a bold move, and it’s rare to see someone in her position so willing to walk away from the power they’ve fought so hard for.

“Then it’s settled,” Caitlyn says, her voice quiet but final. “I’ll be stepping down immediately.”

The council chamber is heavy with their voices, the tension thick enough to suffocate anyone caught in its web. Sevika sits at the far end of the table, watching the unfolding drama with a detached, almost clinical interest. The implications of Caitlyn’s departure are clear—Piltover’s reputation, its stability, everything they’ve built, could unravel without her presence.

Sevika’s eyes narrow as Caitlyn stands, her resolve unwavering, but there’s an undercurrent of something more—a fragility beneath her poised exterior. The council is already divided, and Caitlyn’s exit is the crack that might break it wide open.

The murmurs start up again, and a voice rises above the rest. Shoola, her tone as sharp and calculated as ever. “I believe there is injustice in this Decision,” she says, her gaze fixated on Caitlyn. “After everything we’ve done, after the sacrifices, the blood spilled for this city?”

The weight of the question lingers in the air, and for a moment, it seems like Caitlyn might back down, but she doesn’t. Instead, she stands taller, defiant. “I can’t be part of this anymore,” Caitlyn says, her voice unwavering. “I need to focus on my life.”

The room is silent again, but this time it’s a different kind of silence—thick with suspense, ripe with accusation. There’s a collective feeling that Caitlyn has just opened a door, one that should never have been opened. Some members look at her with disbelief, others with anger.

Shoola’s voice is laced with a low, dangerous edge. “You’re making a big mistake, Caitlyn,” she says, her gaze hard. “Leaving now… It’s not just a personal decision. It’s a betrayal.”

The words land like a punch, and the room goes still, everyone now focused on her. She leans in, her gaze never leaving Caitlyn’s. “You walk out of here, and you leave this city to fall apart. You leave the rest of us to pick up the pieces, while you go off and live your life like nothing ever happened. Is that what you’re saying?”

Caitlyn’s jaw clenches, but she holds Shoola’s gaze. “I’m not abandoning anyone,” she retorts, her voice rising with the sting of defiance. “I’m doing what I need to do.” Her gaze falters, just for a moment, but she quickly regains her composure, standing tall. “If I have to face the consequences for doing what’s right for me, then so be it,” she says firmly.

The council is silent now, the room divided, the air crackling with the unspoken realization that this isn’t just about Caitlyn leaving.

Sevika watches it all unfold, keeping her expression unreadable at first, but her mind races. She can feel the weight of Shoola’s words, but it’s not just the council’s grip on Caitlyn she’s angry about. It’s the council’s pattern of forcing people to bend to their will. This isn’t just about Caitlyn’s resignation—it’s about their control over everyone, their inability to see that some decisions cannot be dictated.

Without warning, Sevika stands, her chair scraping loudly against the floor as she pushes herself up. Her mechanical arm whirs quietly as she places it firmly on the table, her voice cutting through the murmur of the council. 

“Enough of this,” she snaps, her tone sharp and commanding. “The council can’t keep forcing people into doing what they want, Shoola.”

Her gaze sharpens, locking onto Shoola with an intensity that leaves no room for argument. “Kiramman  made her choice. If you don’t like it, then that’s your problem, not hers.” Her words ring with finality, each one heavier than the last. 

Shoola’s expression hardens, her lips pressing into a thin line, but Sevika doesn’t back down. She can feel the eyes of the council members on her, and for the first time in a long while, it’s not a feeling of discomfort. Instead, she stands tall, defiant in the face of the council’s narrow-minded control.

The room is still for a moment, the air thick with tension, as if they’re all waiting for someone to defy Sevika’s words. But no one does. Her challenge to the status quo hangs in the air, unspoken but understood.

Caitlyn, for her part, looks at Sevika with something like surprise, though the smallest trace of gratitude flickers in her gaze. Sevika is offering her something she’s never had in the council—a voice of her own, a defense against the relentless pressure of those who think they know better.

Shoola opens her mouth, but no words come out. She stares at Sevika, then Caitlyn, and finally the rest of the council, as if seeking support. But the room remains silent.

“Let her go,” Sevika adds, her voice softer now, but no less firm. “If she wants to leave, let her. No one here has the right to hold her back.”

For a moment, it feels as though the weight of the council is shifting, just slightly, in Sevika’s direction. The others, still stunned, exchange glances, unsure of how to proceed now that the power dynamic has subtly changed.

Sevika then excuses herself and steps out of the council room, her arm humming softly with each movement. The weight of the tension still lingers in the air, and she feels the need to escape it for a moment, even if only to breathe. The hallway is dim, quiet, a stark contrast to the charged atmosphere she just left behind.

She walks briskly toward the patio, the familiar chill of Piltover’s air biting at her skin. When she reaches the edge of the balcony, she pulls out a cigarette, the motion slow and deliberate. It’s the only moment she allows herself to breathe without the weight of expectations pressing down on her chest.

She lights the cigarette, the flicker of the match briefly illuminating her face, casting shadows over her features. She takes a long drag, letting the smoke fill her lungs, the sharp, bitter taste grounding her. As she exhales, the smoke curls into the night air, dissipating into the dark sky above.

She leans against the railing, looking out over the city. In the horizon she can see Zaun. It’s a place that’s been her home for so long, but right now, it feels like it’s slipping away from her. The council, the tension, the control—she’s tired of all of it. Tired of pretending she’s part of something that doesn’t see her.

She thinks about Silco. About Jinx. The way things used to be, when it was simpler, when the world felt smaller. There was power in their chaos, a kind of order amidst the madness. She wasn’t always happy with the way things went, but at least it made sense to her. Now, everything’s fractured, like a puzzle with pieces that don’t fit anymore.

Her cigarette burns down to the filter, and she flicks it away, watching as it falls into the darkness below. She could keep pretending to play this game. She could keep showing up to those council meetings, pretending like it’s worth it. But deep down, she knows it’s all just a distraction.

The wind picks up slightly, the cold seeping through her clothes, but she doesn’t move. She stands there, staring out at the city, wondering if there’s still a place for her here, or if she’s already outgrown it. 

She lights up another cigarette, takes another long drag, blows another cloud of smoke, eyes fixed on the city below. For a moment, the chaos of Piltover and Zaun, the council meetings, the politics, all fades into the background. The familiar hum of the undercity’s pulse is like a distant echo in her mind. 

Then, the sound of voices from inside the building cuts through the silence, a whisper of conversation that beckons her attention.

She knows the first voice. It’s Mel. But the other voice, sharp and biting, is unmistakable—Shoola. The tone in the air is already thick, something Sevika can feel in her bones. She doesn’t have to be close to understand what’s going on. It’s a struggle of conflict, one Sevika has seen play out time and time again, but with stakes higher than ever.

She stays where she is, hovering just out of earshot, but close enough to catch fragments of the conversation drifting through the thick walls. Mel’s voice, soft but firm, rises first. It cuts through the air with a strange urgency.

“This isn’t the way to handle things,” she says, the frustration in her tone evident. “You can’t just charge in with force and expect everything to fall in line. We’ve lost enough already. We can’t afford to keep making the same mistakes.”

Shoola’s voice follows, laced with venom, as if the weight of everything in Piltover and Zaun is pushing against her chest. “You’ve been too soft, Mel. Too patient. Look where it’s gotten us.” Her words hang in the air, each one like a blow. “The council is weak, and we’re still here, treading water, waiting for the next disaster. Piltover is at the brink, and you’re trying to negotiate with them?”

“I’m trying to save what’s left,” Mel snaps back, her voice low but steady. “You want to rule by force, but that’s not the way forward. This war… we can’t afford to be so reckless again.”

“Reckless?” Shoola scoffs, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Is that what you think? You think I’m reckless?” The words seem to hang in the air for a moment, like a challenge. “You might as well let them all die, Mel. All those people, their lives shattered, their families torn apart, because you were afraid to make hard choices.”

Mel’s response is quieter now, almost a whisper, but Sevika can hear the weight of it. “I’m not afraid to make them. I’ve had to make plenty of them, whether you believe it or not. But this—this isn’t just about miss Kiramman anymore. This is about everyone, about what kind of future we’re going to have. I won’t let it all slip away just because we’re too stubborn to talk.”

Sevika feels a knot tighten in her stomach. This is the Mel she knows—the one who’s always tried to balance the delicate line between power and compassion, between what’s necessary and what’s right. 

But listening to her now, there’s something brittle beneath her words, something that sounds almost like resignation. Like she’s on the edge of giving up.

Shoola’s voice cuts in, cruel and dismissive. “You’ve had your chance, Mel. We’re past negotiation. When Piltover comes knocking again, what’s going to happen? How many more will die because you couldn’t pull the trigger when it mattered?”

“Enough, Shoola.” Mel’s voice sharpens, like a blade being drawn. “I won’t stand here and listen to you talk about sacrifices as if you know what it’s like to carry them. You’ve never been on the other side of the table, never had to make the choices I’ve made. So don’t lecture me about weakness.”

The tension is palpable now, and Sevika feels it in the pit of her guts. She knows both of them too well—the calm, calculated Mel who always tries to see the bigger picture, and the relentless, driven Shoola who would burn everything to the ground to get what she wants. And right now, they’re clashing, their differences like oil and water, impossible to reconcile.

Sevika steps back slightly, wanting to leave but unable to walk away from the fight that’s brewing. She can feel the weight of it, a shift in the air that seems to settle like a heavy fog. The kind of fog that makes it hard to see the road ahead, the choices that need to be made.

“I’m not weak, Shoola,” Mel says, her voice unwavering. “I’m not afraid to lose what I’ve built. But I won’t destroy everything just to win. That’s not leadership. That’s power without purpose.”

Shoola scoffs again, her tone harsh and dismissive. “You can think that all you want, young Medarda. But when the dust settles, the ones who have the power will be the ones left standing. And if you’re not willing to take it, then you’ll be swept aside. Just like everyone else.”

Sevika’s hands clench into fists. This is the moment she’s been waiting for, the moment when the cracks between them become too wide to ignore. Shoola’s right about one thing—power is what keeps the world spinning. But there’s more to it than just grabbing it by the throat.

And that’s when Mel’s voice rings out, louder than before, cutting through the tension like a blade.

“I will not trade my soul for power.” She takes a breath, her words heavy with something almost like finality. “And I won’t let you drag us down that path.”

Sevika leans against the stone balcony, the faint glow of Piltover’s lights casting long shadows across the cityscape. The voices from inside, where Mel and Shoola’s argument still lingers in the air, are muffled by the heavy hum of the city’s distant heartbeat. She can’t help but laugh softly to herself, the sound almost bitter.

In Zaun, conversations aren’t like this. They don’t circle around the same tired points, veiled in words of power, diplomacy, and righteousness. There, it’s all raw, direct—a matter of survival. No one’s pretending to be something they’re not. There’s no pretending to play nice for the sake of the greater good, no whispers of what should or shouldn’t be done. It’s not clean. It’s not polished. But at least it’s honest.

Sevika laughs again, but this time, it’s hollow, like the laugh of someone who’s long since stopped expecting anything to change. She inhales deeply, exhaling the smoke slowly, her eyes narrowing at the city below. Zaun’s chaos still calls to her, familiar, almost comforting.

It’s a place that understands what she’s been through, a place where survival and strength are the currency that matter most.

But here? In this room, with people who speak in circles, who dance around their power with veiled words and empty promises? She’s not sure she will ever belong.

Footsteps behind her pull her from her thoughts. She doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is—Mel. Her presence is too familiar by now, and Sevika’s sense of the room has grown sharper since her time on the council.

Mel approaches her quietly, almost tentatively, as if unsure whether to intrude. Sevika hears the soft scrape of her shoes on the floor as she steps closer, stopping just behind her, but she doesn’t move. The silence stretches for a moment.

“Laughing at something?” Her voice is softer than usual, carrying a hint of curiosity, maybe even a touch of concern.

Sevika shrugs, blowing out another plume of smoke, her eyes still on the city. “Just thinking how different this is from home. Those conversations down there… they’re not like this. No back-and-forth. Just… the real stuff.” She lets out another dry laugh. “That’s the way we do it in Zaun.”

Mel’s gaze lingers on her for a beat, and Sevika can almost feel the weight of her scrutiny, her silent analysis. But she doesn’t care. She’s used to it by now. Let Mel think whatever she wants to think. It doesn’t change anything.

After a moment, Mel steps up beside her, close enough that Sevika can hear the soft rustle of her cloak. “What’s the real stuff, Sevika? What is it you really want?”

Sevika’s fingers tighten around the cigarette, the ember flaring briefly before she drops it to the ground, grinding it out with her boot. She doesn’t answer right away, the question hanging in the air, its‘ weight pressing down on her more than any of the council’s demands ever could. What does she want? She’s not sure she’s even been asked that in years.

For a long time, it was about survival. Then it was about loyalty to Silco, to Jinx, to a purpose. Now, though? Everything feels like it’s falling apart, like she’s standing in a place where there’s no clear path ahead.

“I want to go home,” she mutters under her breath, more to herself than to Mel, her voice carrying a rawness that surprises even her. The words feel like a confession, something she’s never allowed herself to say out loud.

Mel seems to sense the vulnerability in her words, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she stays silent, letting the moment stretch between them. Sevika can feel her presence, her steady calm, but there’s something else there too—something soft, maybe even understanding.

Eventually, Mel speaks again, quieter now, her voice almost hesitant. “Do you think you’ll find what you’re looking for there?”

Sevika doesn’t know how to answer that. There’s a longing in her chest that she can’t quite name, a yearning for something real, something that doesn’t involve politics, lies, or the constant battle for power. She wants to remember what it felt like to fight for something that wasn’t just survival.

“I don’t know,” Sevika admits. “But it’s worth trying.”

Mel stays still for a moment longer, as if processing the weight of Sevika’s words. When she speaks again, it’s with a quiet resolve. “If you go back to Zaun, what will you do?”

Sevika turns her head to look at her, her expression unreadable, but her eyes sharp. “What I’ve always done. What I’m good at.”

Mel meets her gaze, unflinching. “And that’s enough?”

Sevika hesitates. The question hangs there, heavy, almost like a challenge, but it’s not something she can easily answer. Instead, she simply shakes her head.

“No,” she says, finally. “It’s not enough.”

Mel’s voice breaks the quiet as she steps closer, her words deliberate but softened, as though testing the waters. “I know things haven’t been easy for you here. But if you want to find your place in this council, I can help you.”

Sevika doesn’t turn to face her right away, the offer hanging in the air between them, cold and distant as the city below. It’s a tempting offer, one she knows would give her more power, more influence. It’s the kind of offer anyone in her position might accept—especially after everything she’s been through.

But Sevika? She’s been down that road before.

Her jaw tightens as she exhales a puff of smoke, the bitter taste of regret mixing with the chill in the air. “I don’t need your help,” she says, finally looking over her shoulder, her eyes hard. “I’m done trying to fit into a place where I’m not wanted.”

Mel stands there for a moment, clearly taken aback by the sharpness of her refusal, but she doesn’t retreat. Instead, her gaze softens, the familiar calculating look giving way to something more vulnerable—something that seems to acknowledge the weight of Sevika’s words. It’s obvious she’s not used to being rejected, not like this.

“You don’t have to fit in,” Mel says quietly, her voice steady but with a thread of something deeper in it. “But you also don’t have to keep fighting alone.”

Sevika’s fingers twitch slightly, an old reflex, but she keeps herself composed, masking any hint of doubt. She’s fought alone for too long to suddenly depend on someone else. The last time she let someone in, she lost everything. Trust, loyalty, and even the people she loved.

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing as she watches Mel approach. There’s something about the way Mel moves, the way she speaks, that tells Sevika everything she needs to know.

“No offense, Council Medarda,” she says, the words coming out with a sharp edge. She flicks the cigarette to the ground and crushes it beneath her heel. “But I see through your bullshit.”

Mel’s face tightens, but she doesn’t back down. “It’s unfortunate you think that way,” she says, voice steady. “I’m simply offering you a chance to find a real place here, to have influence, to make the decisions instead of just reacting to them.”

Sevika laughs, the sound cold and humorless. “Influence?” she repeats, her voice laced with disdain. “You think I don’t see how you play both sides? How you say one thing, then pull the strings behind the scenes?”

Mel doesn’t argue. They both know it’s true. Sevika’s seen it in every decision Mel’s made, every time she’s placed herself just slightly above the fray, always maneuvering, always calculating. She knows how to look like she’s on the side of the people, but when it comes down to it, she’s just as much a part of the system that’s kept them all in chains.

Sevika steps closer, her voice low and forceful. “I’ve been used before by people like you. I don’t need you, and I don’t need your help.”

Sevika can see the flicker of frustration in Mel’s eyes at her words. She’s used to being in control, used to making people see things her way, but Sevika’s not one of them. She’s not another person to manipulate, to twist and angle the way that looks best.

“I didn’t think you’d see it like that,” Mel says quietly. There’s a hint of something in her tone—maybe regret, maybe disbelief. “But I wasn’t trying to control you. I was trying to give you a choice.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not interested in your kind of choice,” Sevika retorts, her voice harsh. “I’ve had enough of that.”

For a long moment, there’s silence between them. Sevika can feel the weight of Mel’s gaze on her, the unspoken understanding that lingers in the air. She knows what Mel is offering—what she’s trying to do. She’s trying to make Sevika believe in something again, trying to offer her a place in the world, a way to make it all worth something.

Without another word, Sevika turns, walking away from Mel. She doesn’t need to say anything else. Mel knows the conversation is over.