An hour later, we were standing in front of a massive art exhibit, the kind that screamed expensive and definitely not meant for kids. Sevika wore a wide-brimmed hat and dark sunglasses, her usual rough-and-tumble look swapped for something almost... respectable. It was weird seeing her like this, dressed down but still commanding attention. I, on the other hand, looked like someone's lost art student in a floppy beret she'd yanked off a market stall and a scarf that kept slipping off my shoulders like it had given up on me entirely.

"This is so stupid," Sevika muttered, adjusting the brim of her hat like it personally offended her.

"You look amazing," I whispered dramatically, my grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. "Like a movie star trying to go incognito."

She rolled her eyes but didn't bother arguing. "Yeah, well, if anyone asks, I'm your chaperone. Fancy places love that responsible adult nonsense."

I snorted, nearly tripping on the edge of the rug as we slipped past the attendants. Sevika handed over the tickets she'd "acquired" from somewhere—how, I didn't dare ask—and we stepped inside. The air felt different here, charged in a way I couldn't describe. Paintings, sculptures, and installations stretched out before us like they were waiting to tell their stories. It was overwhelming but exciting at the same time.

We moved through the exhibit like we belonged there, Sevika exuding an effortless confidence that made people glance at her and then quickly look away. I, on the other hand, was probably gawking at everything like a tourist seeing Piltover's upper city for the first time.

I stopped in front of a massive canvas, a riot of colors and drips that seemed to defy logic but still made perfect sense in some abstract way. My chest tightened as I stared at it, my eyes tracing the messy, chaotic lines.

"I love this," I said softly, almost to myself. My voice felt small in the vastness of the room.

Sevika leaned her weight onto her good arm, tilting her head at the painting. "Yeah? Why?"

I hesitated, my fingers brushing the edge of my scarf. "I don't know. It makes me feel... something. Like I'm not alone, I guess." I paused, struggling to put it into words. "It's like... the chaos. It feels like the same mess that's in my head most days. But then there's the calm stuff in the background, like it's saying it's okay for everything to be all over the place as long as there's something holding it together. You know?"

For a moment, she didn't say anything. Her gaze flicked between me and the painting, her expression unreadable. Then, to my surprise, she let out a low hum of approval.

"That's a lot for a bunch of splattered paint," she said, but there was no bite in her tone. She gave me a small smile, the kind she rarely let slip. "But yeah. That's pretty cool, kid."

I turned back to the painting, my cheeks warming. "It's not just splattered paint," I mumbled. "It's a whole story."

"Huh," she said, stepping closer to examine it more carefully. "Didn't know you were so deep."

"I have layers," I shot back, flashing her a quick grin. "Like an onion. Or a really complex cake."

"More like an onion," she teased, her smirk widening. "You're definitely more likely to make people cry."

I laughed, nudging her arm lightly, careful not to touch the mechanical one. "You're impossible."

"And you're still a kid with weird taste," she said, her voice soft but carrying that familiar edge of affection. "But... I get it. Chaos and calm. It's not bad."

We stood there a little longer, the weight of the world outside fading just enough to feel bearable. For the first time in a while, I didn't feel like I had to explain myself further. Sevika didn't press, and I didn't push. The painting spoke for both of us.

I beamed at Sevika, the warmth in my chest catching me off guard. I hadn't talked about art in so long, and the words had poured out of me before I even realized it. As we walked on, I wondered why she'd brought me here of all places. There was no way she could've known about my past with art. Did she genuinely have no idea what to do with a kid? Or was this some clumsy attempt to play the "cool aunt" card? Maybe it wasn't even about me—maybe this was just the least boring thing she could think of. The thought made me grin.

We wandered through the rest of the exhibit, her sharp tongue cutting through the reverent quiet like a blade. At first, I tried to shush her, but I gave up when I realized the attendants were too intimidated to say anything.

She stopped in front of a painting—a wild mess of tangled red and black lines—and tilted her head, frowning. "Looks like someone spilled their guts on a canvas," she muttered, her voice so dry it almost echoed.

I slapped a hand over my mouth, trying not to laugh too loudly. "It's supposed to represent chaos," I managed to say, though even I didn't sound convinced.

"Chaos?" Sevika snorted, crossing her arms. "Nah, this is a stubbed toe on a bad day. Bet the artist kicked their desk and thought, 'You know what? Let's make this everyone's problem.'" She jabbed a finger at the jagged streaks, her smirk growing. "That line? Pure toe-stubbing energy."

I giggled, shaking my head. "That's not how art works!"

"Sure it is," she said with an exaggerated shrug. "Pain, frustration, toenails—it's all part of the process, Puppet Master."

"Stop calling me that!" I whined, though I couldn't stop laughing. I grabbed her arm and tugged her along. "Come on, let's find something you can't make fun of."

"Good luck," she said, her smirk firmly in place.

The next room featured a towering abstract sculpture, vaguely human-shaped but stretched and warped into impossible proportions. Sevika stopped dead in her tracks, her brow furrowing as she squinted at it.

"What... is that supposed to be?" she asked, her voice laced with suspicion.

"It's an abstract interpretation of the human form," I said, trying to sound like I had any idea what I was talking about.

"Uh-huh," she said slowly, leaning closer to examine it. "Well, I'm pretty sure the 'interpretation' part went way off the rails." Her tone dropped conspiratorially as she pointed at the sculpture's lower half. "Like, south off the rails."

I frowned, following her gaze, and froze. My face went hot. "Oh."

Before I could say another word, Sevika's hand shot out, covering my eyes. "Alright, moving on!" she said, her voice brisk as she turned me away from the sculpture.

"Wait, I wanted to—"

"Nope," she interrupted, steering me firmly toward the next room. "You're too young for... whatever that was."

"It's just art!" I protested, trying to wriggle free of her grip.

"It's just gross," she shot back, not missing a beat. "Trust me, kid. Some things you don't unsee."

"Come on!" I groaned. "I wasn't even looking there! You made it weird!"

"You'll thank me later," she said, her voice full of mock authority as she marched me away.

"Sure I will," I muttered, though I couldn't help but smile. For all her gruffness, Sevika was trying. And in her own weird way, she was kind of killing it.

We wandered into a quieter section of the gallery, where the walls seemed to close in, dim lighting pulling focus to a row of hauntingly dark paintings. The air felt heavier here, almost reverent. One painting stood out from the rest—a twisted, shadowed figure that seemed to writhe within the canvas. Its hollow eyes bore into mine, and for a moment, I felt pinned under its gaze.

Sevika stopped beside me, her shoulders tensing. "That's... unsettling," she muttered, her usual bravado softened by something uneasy.

"It's intense," I agreed, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Intense?" she repeated, turning to me with raised eyebrows. "Kid, that's the kind of thing that crawls out from under your bed and whispers, 'Boo.'"

I stepped closer, the details drawing me in—the jagged strokes, the muted, almost suffocating colors. "It's not about the monster," I said, tilting my head to take it all in. "It's about what it feels like. The fear. The loneliness."

Sevika glanced between me and the painting, her frown deepening. "Loneliness?" she echoed. "Looks more like the kind of thing that'd eat you alive if you gave it the chance."

"It's not real," I said softly, almost as if trying to convince myself. "It's what someone feels when they don't know how to say it out loud. When everything's just... bottled up."

Her silence stretched on long enough that I turned to look at her. She wasn't staring at the painting anymore; her gaze was fixed on me. There was something in her expression—concern, maybe, or something harder to pin down.

"You're a strange kid," she said finally, her tone a mix of gruffness and something almost fond.

I shrugged, smiling faintly. "Maybe. But the artist probably felt like this once. Angry. Hurt. Didn't know where else to put it."

Sevika snorted, crossing her arms. "Yeah, well. Still think they were messed up. Normal people don't paint stuff like that."

I turned to her, raising an eyebrow. "Who decides what's normal?"

Her lips twitched into a reluctant smirk. "Alright, Professor. Keep your fancy theories. I'll stick with what my gut tells me."

I grinned, leaning into the banter. "Your gut doesn't know art."

"And your brain doesn't know when to quit," she shot back, reaching over to ruffle my hair roughly.

"Hey!" I protested, ducking out of her reach and smoothing my hair back down.

We moved on, Sevika's running commentary making it impossible to take anything too seriously. She stopped in front of a neon-lit installation, her lips curling into a skeptical sneer. "What is this, a nightclub?"

"It's called modern art," I teased, gesturing with an exaggerated flourish.

She snorted, unimpressed. "Looks more like someone raided the scrap yard."

The next piece—a minimalist canvas with a single red dot—made her scoff so loudly a nearby couple glanced over, startled. "Are you kidding me?" Sevika grumbled, pointing at the dot. "Did the artist sneeze and call it a day?"

I bit my lip, trying not to laugh. "Maybe it's symbolic."

"Of what? Someone losing a game of pin the tail on the donkey?" she shot back, shaking her head.

We reached a series of blank frames, each one spaced carefully apart and lit dramatically as if they held something profound. Sevika stopped dead, blinking at the empty voids. "No way this counts as art," she said flatly. "Did they just forget to hang the paintings?"

I burst out laughing, unable to hold it in anymore. "You're hopeless!"

"And you're too easily impressed," she said, though there was a grudging warmth in her voice. "Come on, let's see if there's something that doesn't look like a bad joke."

For all her grumbling, Sevika lingered a little longer in that section than I expected, her eyes darting to the shadows between the frames. I didn't call her out on it. Instead, I stayed close, letting her pull me along to whatever came next.

A painting near the exit caught my eye—a woman bathing in a fountain while a man lurked in the shadows of the bushes, his face twisted into an unsettling leer. Sevika stopped beside me, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her entire demeanor shifted, the usual dry humor replaced with sharp disapproval.

"That," she said, her voice dripping with disgust, "is just plain disturbing. I'd punch his face in."

I nodded, my stomach twisting uncomfortably. "Even in art, women are objectified more than men. It's… sad." I hesitated, glancing at her before adding, "But yeah, punch him. He deserves it."

Sevika's lips quirked into a sideways smirk, her expression softening. "Maybe you're not such a softie after all."

"I never said I was," I shot back, trying to inject some levity into the moment. But my gaze lingered on the painting, and I felt a pang of frustration again, reminding myself for what felt like the hundredth time that this wasn't my world. "I hope your not planning to rob this place." I said jokingly.

Sevika's smirk deepened into something halfway between playful and mock-offended as she leaned closer. "You seriously think I'd rob a place like this? Me?" She gestured vaguely at the room. "You think I'd bring this nightmare fuel down to Zaun? Please."

I snickered, raising an eyebrow at her. "Why not? Some of these pieces would probably sell for more than your entire bar tab."

She stopped mid-stride and turned to stare at me, incredulous. "You're joking."

"Nope," I said with exaggerated cheer, pointing at a massive canvas nearby. It was an abstract mess of uneven splotches of brown and green, splattered like someone had spilled their lunch. "That one? Could easily go for thousands."

Her expression morphed into one of outright horror as she gawked at the painting, then back at me. "You're telling me," she said slowly, as though testing the words, "that someone would pay actual money for… mud and grass stains?"

"It's called 'art,'" I replied, throwing up exaggerated air quotes. "And yeah, people with more money than sense love this stuff."

Sevika threw her hands up in mock exasperation. "That's it. I'm in the wrong business. I could spill my coffee on a napkin and call it a masterpiece."

"You should try it," I teased, my grin widening. "You might be the next big thing."

She scoffed but couldn't quite hide the glint of mischief in her eyes. "Don't tempt me, Puppet Master. I'll be back here next week, slap some grease on a board, and call it Essence of Zaun."

I burst out laughing, nearly doubling over as the mental image took hold. "Oh, and don't forget to add a cigarette butt or two for texture!"

"Done," she said with mock-seriousness. "And you're my marketing manager now. We'll make a fortune."

We wandered into an open workshop area where a small group of artists were painting at easels. The smell of paint and fresh wood filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of tea from a corner table. One of the artists approached us with a smile, offering brushes and paints.

I reached for them eagerly, but to my surprise, Sevika grabbed a set too. She settled at an easel beside me, her movements stiff and uncertain.

The room buzzed with soft chatter, punctuated by the scratch of brushes on canvas and the occasional clatter of a jar of paint water being knocked over. I sat at a small easel, fingers smudged with colors that felt like old friends. The brush fit in my hand like it belonged there, and for the first time in what felt like ages, I didn't have to think. My hand moved instinctively, the paint flowing freely, forming lines and shapes that just... worked.

I'd forgotten how much I missed this—how freeing it was to lose myself in the act of creation. The world around me faded, the chatter and noise becoming a distant hum as the strokes of my brush transformed chaos into something meaningful.

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to," I teased, my voice light as I added a bright streak of yellow to my canvas, breaking through the darker tones like sunlight cutting through smog.

Sevika groaned dramatically beside me, glaring at her blank canvas like it had personally offended her. "Shut it, kid," she muttered, gripping her brush with the delicate finesse of someone holding a weapon. After a long pause, she dipped the brush into a dark blue and attacked the canvas with bold, aggressive strokes.

I peeked over at her work, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "You're really good," I said honestly, tilting my head to take in the rough, stormy shapes forming under her hand.

She snorted without looking at me. "You don't have to lie to make me feel better, you know."

"I'm not lying!" I insisted, gesturing toward her canvas. "It's got this whole... storm vibe going on. Like Zaun—chaotic, rough, but alive. It's cool!"

Her brush paused mid-stroke, and she turned to look at me, her eyes narrowing slightly. "How would you know what Zaun is like?"

My stomach flipped, but I forced a casual laugh. "I hear people talk," I said quickly, my brush continuing to move across my own canvas in a bid to look unbothered.

Thankfully, Sevika didn't press further. Instead, she grunted and went back to painting, her strokes losing some of their earlier aggression.