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It took you 847 days to be able to walk into his office without your presence making him guarded.
But that first year, it didn’t matter. No, you were too busy picking up the pieces of yourself after Deckard’s death—scraping them off the floor, really—and nothing really mattered. You weren’t living, nor were you surviving, because that would have required willpower, an effort. You were just there. You worked, talked, ate, and slept as before. But alone. And on a lot of medication. You merely existed; the world kept turning, and it had left you behind. And you didn’t care. You were there. You were holding on just to keep going; even if you weren’t living anymore, you vaguely knew you had to keep doing it.
Zaun doesn’t bury its dead. It burns them, so they remain with it forever in the air, becoming as heavy and deadly as the Gray. You asked for his body so you could cremate him, of course. You didn’t have many people, but the little old lady from the third floor who had watched you grow up, your cousin who was still alive, and maybe two or three friends would have come. But they didn’t want to give him to you. And you understood why when, after insisting, pleading your loyalty, your involvement in the organization, they finally let you see him one last time.
Your brother. Your best friend, the only family you had left, the source of your problems and worries, and the only one who could still bake Mom’s cookies just like she used to.
A monster. There are no other words for it. Huge and deformed, the face of a dangerous beast, even in death. Disfigured by his wounds, covered in blood—blood more purple than red, so vivid against his gaping wounds encrusted with debris.
He wasn’t even eighteen. He didn’t believe in anything. It was because of you that you were working for Silco, because you knew Sevika and, like her, you wanted things to change. You were the one who was involved, the one who was an activist. Vander’s spinelessness had disgusted you, too. You believed in Silco. You weren’t afraid of what you’d have to do to finally see the nation of Zaun recognized: violence and death were all too familiar. You just wanted, if you had to get your hands dirty, for it to be for a cause worth it. Silco, on the other hand, took action. He had a plan, he had connections, he knew how to be as cruel as necessary to make things change. He spoke so eloquently; it was as if everything you’d always thought was coming out of his mouth, only much better said. It was impossible not to believe him, not to follow him.
You had followed him. And Deckard was dead
Yet it wasn’t his death—cruel, pointless, and appalling—that made you see the light. You knew you were risking your lives working for him. You had come to terms with that possibility. Zaun was more important than you. Your brother, while he didn’t share your passion for the cause, shared your hatred for Piltover and its iron fist clamped down on your necks. He hated the Enforcers and anything even remotely like them. He was young, and dumb, and unfortunately far less talented than he’d like to be. He’d have loved to be as massive as the Pilts fighters, beating up anyone who crossed him. But he didn’t have the stamina or the grit for that.
They didn’t tell you what it was, what made your brother’s veins glow like neon lights. They didn’t apologize for dragging a rookie into such a dangerous operation, a man so young who until then had been nothing more than a pair of eyes on the streets and who didn’t have the backbone to be anything else. They left you with him for five minutes, in silence, then kicked you out without the slightest promise to observe the rites. Oh, you weren’t expecting flowers, or words of sympathy. You were only twenty-four yourself, but you knew you were too low on the social ladder to hope for them. But you would have at least wanted a little respect. And answers.
You got neither. They were too busy reclaiming the Hound’s territory and reorganizing to mourn your brother, who was nothing—you only realized that now.
It’s one thing to know you can die for a cause. It’s another to realize you’re invisible to the man who leads you.
Much later, as you were still picking yourself up, you’d learn the extent of his indifference. Not from Sevika, who didn’t really talk to you anymore, and even less so after Deckard’s death. But from the friend of one of the guys who was there that night. She’ll tell you how your brother had become a beast, he who had always wanted to be feared and truly matter. How he’d turned the tide all by himself and stood up to one of the best fighters of his generation. And she’ll tell you this with fear and excitement in her eyes. But she won’t be careful, and she’ll also tell you how he was sent to his death like a dog being whistled away. How he was forgotten the moment he lost, how things went on without anyone shouting his name.
Those were the first sparks. The Shimmer in the street? Gasoline on a fire that was just starting to catch.
You recognized it right away. That color—that sickly mauve—was etched into your mind despite the passage of time and the antidepressants that kept you on your feet. You began to see it in the eyes of teenagers who ran too fast and then vanished, and in the arms of adults who were too thin, too sick, too weak. Not a drug, no. A way to push yourself, to become better. To finally have power, when all your life you’d been able to do was cower under the boots of the Enforcers and the tugs.
At first, at first, it was only the desperate who touched it. And then... the formula became more and more stable, less and less supposed to be dangerous, so it spread. And then, you had to be just as wary of the Shimmer addicts, ready to do anything to get enough for their next fix, as you were of the junkies who discovered their power and blindly lashed out at anything that moved. They were more aggressive than the rats that fed in packs at night, more deadly than the bastards who worked for the Chem-barons.
And it was Zaun turning on Zaun. It was the brother trying to rip the wedding ring off his brother’s finger to buy a fix, it was friends stealing from each other, it was the friendly local shopkeepers losing their businesses and ending up begging on the street.
Finally, anger broke through the apathy caused by the meds, and you realized: 402 days since your brother’s death, 402 days of living like a ghost, consumed by guilt. 402 days since Silco had become richer and more powerful than any Lanes scum like you could ever dream of, and for what? Was that why your Deckard had killed a good man, why his story had ended there, taking so many others with it? So that a horrible drug that devoured its people could flow through the streets of Zaun—ZAUN!
That day, a gray and cold day like so many in winter in the Lanes, you made a decision. And you threw away your medication, too.
You deserved the pain. You deserved the cruel thoughts, the insomnia, the weariness of living.
You hadn’t failed just your brother by choosing Silco. It was Zaun you had betrayed. And that was unacceptable.
Up until then, you’d been nothing more than a pair of little hands—the kind that clear away and clean up, the kind that quietly handle problems too small to interest the boss or his inner circle. You had no special talents, no skills, and no noteworthy education. You were destined to stay in the background, a blurry face that history never remembers.
But you were stubborn. And you had absolutely nothing left to lose.
You started going above and beyond. Working harder than everyone else, hitting harder, speaking up more where you knew people were listening. You didn’t say anything you shouldn’t have—just the truth. It hadn’t changed despite everything: you were ready to do anything for Zaun.
You were perfect: a sister finally waking up from a difficult mourning, with nothing but the cause on her mind. You had no children, no husband, no family, and you’d cut everyone else out of your life since Deckard’s death. Sevika knew you; she could speak for you: not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but tough. And more loyal than a pack dog.
You rose slowly through the ranks. You became a shadow in Silco’s life, protecting his interests, then his possessions, and finally his very person by standing guard outside his office. You were unremarkable muscle, once your loyalty was certain. And to him, you were loyal: you loved Zaun to the point of fanaticism and had no reason to betray him. And just like that, you became a familiar face. You ran small errands, you relayed orders. You weren’t even under Sevika’s authority; she rarely gave you more than a nod. No politics for you. Just security, just a human shield to protect the boss. You took your orders from lower down, and that was perfect.
No one speaks to the flesh shield. But we often forget that they have a soul.
It had been 689 days.
You were patient. You easily resisted attempts at corruption—sometimes real, sometimes tests. You didn’t laugh with the others; you didn’t disappear with a man who’d smiled at you. A frigid bitch—that’s what they called you, both the men from Silco and those who worked for the Chem-barons. A fucking slut that only got wet for Zaun. Ah. But women who don’t let themselves be pushed around, who have a mind of their own, often become whores to those who can’t have them. Interesting, isn’t it?
You said nothing. You mercilessly beat down anyone who approached you, until novody does. You waited. You had to wait some more. You knew you had to wait. But it was hard. Not because of the insults, the mockery. Not because of the loneliness or the sleepless nights, when opening your eyes to a new day was almost insurmountable. No. It was because sometimes—too often, but just once for yourself was too much—you had that poison in your hands. You had to supply dealers. You had to protect shipments. You had to take part in sales, cold and clinical transactions, and you’d see little Zvokò again with his wound on his cheek, or Alice’s leg changing after the injection as she screamed in pain. You had to stand there, watchful, your face blank, for men and women who killed Zaunites without lifting a finger. Their greed, their thirst for power, their indifference were killing them.
It had been 745 days now. And you? How many had you killed yourself? How many families, how many orphans your choices had destroyed?
Don’t think about it.
Don’t picture them.
Hold on. Just a little longer, until you were so familiar that you’d be forgotten. You knew what you had to do. You just had to hold your breath a little longer. Even if you were so tired. So weary. Sometimes, when you came home, you’d count days again and wonder how many were left. How long could you keep a blank face, a docile attitude, when you were burning to finally be done with it all?
But not now.
You couldn’t fail now.
Not when you’d gotten yourself so dirty. It would be unbearable.
801 days. They sent you to get the cigars he likes. Anyone else would have been offended by such a menial task. You showed nothing but submission. It was for Silco, and in the eyes of many, Silco was Zaun. For the others, it was the only certainty that lit up your dead eyes, that bounced around in your little brain.
He didn’t even look at you when you came back with the box. He was reading something, his forehead in his hand, his shoulders slumped, and when you approached, he merely motioned for you to set them down next to his ashtray. 801 days. Finally, he no longer distrusted you enough to keep an eye on you. Sevika and Jinx were the only ones who could approach him without him needing to follow them with his eyes. He kept an eye on everyone else. But not you, not this time. Because you were a woman, small and colorless, or because it was etched on his face that one had to be wary of violent mountains of muscle? What did it matter, really. He’d gotten used to you. You weren’t a threat. Uninteresting. Move along, nothing to worry about. You stepped forward. Your heart was pounding against your ribs. You set the box down, very gently. You didn’t want to do anything that might draw attention to you, even though joy was singing in your belly, almost dizzying after so long. Finally. 801 days.
It was almost there.
You hadn’t changed a thing. You didn’t have to prepare anything or plan ahead, because you didn’t expect to make it through. It was almost exhilarating. You were just waiting for the right moment. The moment when he’d be alone. When Jinx wouldn’t be there, a quiet moment, late at night, early in the morning, when the bar was emptying out. He loved those moments, and took advantage of them to work until he nearly fell asleep in his chair.
828 days—you were almost there. You were about to go in when a kid, barely a teenager, the kind who’d come by to share the news for a coin or two, burst in shouting that there were problems at the docks. He stormed out, dragging you along in his wake without a word to you.
830 days, but you didn’t try anything. It was the day you went to the Janna temple in your neighborhood to mark the anniversary of your parents’ deaths. They hadn’t died on the same day, of course. But you’d chosen a date in between, pragmatic and simple like all Zaunites. Now, you took the opportunity to think of Deckard, too. You went there at the end of your shift, almost grateful that it had been a missed opportunity the day before yesterday. At least you could pay your respects to your loved ones one last time. You didn’t believe in life after death, no matter what the priests said. The presence of the gods was undeniable, given that they sometimes clashed among men, but you’d never thought they cared much about what happened to you when you died. Why would they? They were immortal. If men themselves had trouble caring for their own, why would eternally young, beautiful, and healthy gods bother? It wasn’t for them; it was simply a moment to remember those who had passed away. You closed your eyes in the silence and the incense, and you tried to remember your father’s laughter, or the warmth of your mother’s hands in your hair. Would they approve of what you wanted to do? You wanted to believe so. It was easier to believe so. But deep down, you knew they would be horrified above all by the blood on your hands.
835 days. Today, almost another chance. But just as she sometimes did, Jinx had picked on you. She’d tried to scare you. It would have been almost funny to see that skinny little girl—barely thirteen, was she?—trying to intimidate you. But you’d seen her talking to children who weren’t there; you’d heard her scream in terror at night. You knew that Silco was letting her sink into a psychosis that hadn’t yet been named, and that he’d brush Sevika off every time she tried to warn him about the public danger she was becoming. Jinx wasn’t well, and Jinx knew no bounds. So, yes, she was scary, even at thirteen. But since you never reacted, she quickly got bored of you and usually left you alone. She didn’t know that the only thing that truly scared you was the thought of having endured those 835 days for nothing.
And then finally, finally, the moment arrived.
The bar was empty; his right-hand woman and his adopted daughter were elsewhere. A dreary, uneventful afternoon. You had an errand to run, a package to bring him, which gave you the chance to enter his office alone. Armed, of course. But you were a familiar face. You were the silent security, the invisible muscle. You weren’t sure he even knew your name, in the sea of people who worked for him. You couldn’t even remember the last time he’d spoken to you directly.
And as you walked toward him, you wondered if he ever thought about Deckard. If he had any regrets. No. Of course he hadn’t.
It was the sound of your hoster opening that made him turn his head toward you. You told him—without shouting, not too loudly—to be careful, to step aside, as you ran toward him as if a threat had suddenly appeared in the window.
He believed you.
He threw himself under his desk, a knife appearing as if by magic in his hand, alert, scanning for danger over your shoulder. As a good bodyguard, you were practically pressed up against him to protect him, standing between him and the rest of the world in that cramped space. Pinning him under the desk, far from the door where he could escape, far from the alarm system that would bring other guards. It took only a few seconds to grab the arm holding the knife and pin it to the floor, holding it down with your knee, and in the same motion to press the barrel of your gun against his temple.
Everything stopped. His breathing, your thoughts. The world itself.
“Why?” That was the only thing he said. Obviously, he wasn’t the type to beg for his life. Up close, and after spending so much time with him, you sensed the disappointment, the betrayed trust beneath the monotony of his tone.
“For the Zaunites.”
His eyes bore into yours, furious. You hadn’t planned on speaking; you wanted to get this over with quickly and leave right away. But he deserved to know. You’d admired him for too long to kill him without any explanation.
“You betrayed us. Much worse than Vander, who just bowed down. At least he tried to protect us.”
“I'm not sure I follow.”
"The Shimmer that's taking over the streets. It's your people it's killing. Poor suckers like me, the ones who just suffer and wait. You use us, ruin us, manipulate us, and forget us. We’re nothing to you.”
“No! I’m making you powerful, capable of bringing Piltover to its knees! We needed monsters to fight them off, and with the Shimmer, you’re afraid of nothing and you could…”
You cut him off without a word, driving the metal a little deeper into the soft flesh beneath the salt-and-pepper hair. You almost whisper: “Monsters like Deckard?”
And then, something flashes in his eyes. He scrutinizes your face for the first time in months.
“So it’s revenge, then.”
“Yes. But not just for him. It’s for everyone who died because of you.”
“There’s no war without casualties. Your brother was a…”
"... A guinea pig. You chose to sacrifice a kid too young and arrogant to understand the risks. And what about the others? Guinea pigs too. Sheep to be fleeced, for the money, for the control. You're a traitorous bastard, Silco. Not to Zaun, to the Zaunites. But what will Zaun be without us? Who are you going to offer freedom to when you have it?"
Silence.
“I wonder if you ever realized it.” You hear yourself speaking from a distance, almost as if it were someone else. What you’d like to say, what you desperately want him to understand, doesn’t come out the way you’d like. The joy and relief you hoped for are missing. It’s bitter, somehow. But you can’t see yourself backing down now. Not after 847 days of waiting, of getting your hands so dirty, your soul even worse, the self-loathing suffocating you. Your choices. Your decisions. Your 847 days of purgatory.
“Realized what?, he hisses.
“That you wanted Zaun all for yourself. Along the way, you forgot where you came from. That you were just like us. And now you treat us like Piltove did, even worse .”
He denies it, argues, talks about the violence necessary for change and the funds essential for the war of independence, for rebirth and healing, but you aren’t listening. You really look at him in these final moments—this man whose words you used to drink in like water, whom you trusted to take care of Zaun. And you find him petty, too bitter. Changed.
But is it really all his fault? Shouldn’t you have tried to change him too, back then, instead of waiting only to punish him? Didn’t you also bear some responsibility, by wanting a leader, by hoping he would save you all?
To his surprise, you lean toward him, just enough to rest your forehead against his, for barely a moment. A sign of your respect, a farewell. And an apology.
"I should have..."
But he’ll never know. Because his thirteen-year-old daughter moved like a cat and slipped up behind you. The knife he dropped under the weight of your kneecap is in her little hand; she plunges it into the back of your neck—once, twice, three times. The pain is excruciating, blinding; everything is spinning, and you know—you know—that you have only a few seconds left to live. You can’t speak anymore, and already your hands are going numb. You watch him push you away with his elbow and pull Jinx against him, burying his hand in her hair to block her face against his neck and spare her from seeing you die. It’s instinctive, you know that. He loves her. He just wants to protect her. But, like that, she became his human shield. You were ready to kill him, yes. But not Jinx. You can’t hurt a little girl, even if she’s half-broken by trauma and just slit your throat. And you ask yourself: is Zaun worth murdering the adoptive father of a little girl in her arms?
You have just enough time to choose.
You drop your weapon.
And then you feel yourself drifting away—it’s like sinking underwater. You’re cold, sounds become indistinct, your limbs are heavy, and darkness swallows your vision.
Silco watches you die, his daughter clinging to him.
And you hope, in your final thoughts before the silence, that he won't betray Zaun, not after everything he's done to its people.
But you won’t be there to see what he what he'll do next next, because you made your choice.
Darkness closes in on you.
You can finally rest, far from Zaun and everything.
It’s over.
Finally.