: Intro - The xx
Cassiopeia lounged on her velvet chaise, phone still in hand, staring at the call log with a look that could only be described as predatory amusement. Riven. The Riven. Miss Never-Misses-a-Thing had actually called her—her—for help. The corners of Cassiopeia's lips twitched upward as the moment replayed in her mind. Riven's voice had been brusque, clipped, as if each word was pried out of her with pliers.
"Samples," she had said, her tone painfully neutral. The irony almost made Cassiopeia laugh out loud. Samples. As if Riven wasn't a walking crime lab who could probably dust for prints with her bare hands. The idea of Riven being drugged was so absurd, so deliciously ridiculous, that Cassiopeia had nearly dropped the phone.
She twirled a lock of her sleek black bob around her finger, her grin sharpening. Riven was meticulous to the point of obsession, the kind of person who could spot a hair out of place from fifty feet. Hell, she probably had the molecular structure of her coffee memorized. And yet here she was, calling Cassiopeia. The woman who could dismantle a case faster than she could dismantle someone's ego, but who everyone insisted on underestimating.
Oh, how she loved being underestimated. The stares, the disbelief, the delicious moment when people realized the "fashion-obsessed bimbo" had outplayed them without breaking a sweat—it was better than dessert. Riven, though? She wasn't like the others. Cassiopeia could feel the weight of that stare sometimes, like Riven was dissecting her with those unnervingly quiet, laser-focused eyes. It sent a shiver down her spine—and not the unpleasant kind.
With a dramatic sigh, she slid off the chaise and padded toward her wardrobe, already assembling her look for the occasion. White tank top, emerald-green textured leather pants that hugged her like a scandal, and her sharpest black Louboutins. She tilted her head in the mirror, adjusting the cascade of layered gold necklaces around her neck. Casual, yes, but in that effortless way that made people look twice—and then feel very stupid for thinking she wasn't serious.
God, they always think I'm an airhead, she mused, grabbing her retro green-tinted cat-eye sunglasses. Oh no, a pretty girl who likes heels and lip gloss—she couldn't possibly have a brain. She smirked, remembering the wide-eyed stares of her doubters when she dismantled their arguments, solved their puzzles, or reduced them to stammering idiots. Turning people to metaphorical stone was practically her second job.
Her large black textured shoulder bag sat by the door, unassuming yet packed with her forensic arsenal. Tools of the trade. Not that anyone would suspect. And certainly not that anyone, aside from Riven, would have the guts to ask her for help. Riven's call had been more than unexpected; it had been downright intriguing.
Cassiopeia couldn't help but admit she had a bit of a thing for Riven. There was something about that unflinching calm, that ability to dominate a room without saying a word, that made her both intimidating and infuriatingly attractive. Of course, Cassiopeia would never say it aloud. Riven was the challenge she didn't know she needed.
But this wasn't just about helping. No, the real thrill was the fact that Riven didn't even know what she was asking for. Cassiopeia lived for the game, for staying three moves ahead, for the subtle power play of making even Riven—meticulous, intimidating Riven—just a little unsure.
She grabbed her bag, adjusted her sunglasses, and headed out the door, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement. A slow smile spread across her face. The job wasn't the exciting part. The real fun was Riven.
-୨ ୧-
The gates of House Tariost driveway creaked open slowly, as if deliberately taking their time to make her wait. Dramatic,Cassiopeia thought with a roll of her eyes, tapping her manicured nails on the steering wheel of her emerald-green Ferrari. As the gates finally parted, she shifted gears and eased forward, the low purr of her car making the kind of statement she didn't need words for. The estate came into view—big, bold, and dripping with self-importance.
Cassiopeia adjusted her green-tinted sunglasses, letting them slide down just enough to peek over the top, her emerald eyes scanning the sprawling estate. Overcompensating much? she mused. It was impressive in the way that only people desperate to flaunt their wealth tried to be. Cassiopeia wasn't buying it. As her Louboutins hit the cobblestone driveway, the heavy gates behind her clanged shut with an obnoxiously loud clink, like some overly dramatic punctuation to her arrival. The sun was relentless, bearing down on her like it had a personal vendetta.
"Ugh, I swear to God," she muttered under her breath, tugging at her white tank top to try and catch a breeze. "If hell exists, it's probably bright, sunny, and smug, just like this." She heaved a sigh, her tanned skin practically glowing under the harsh rays. Her skin told one story—sun-kissed, golden perfection. But Cassiopeia knew the truth. She swung her black textured bag over her shoulder, her heels clicking sharply as she made her way toward the house.
I'm not built for this weather, she thought bitterly, wiping a nonexistent bead of sweat from her temple for dramatic effect. In my past life, I must've been reptilian. Cold, perfectly suited for shadowy corners. But no, she thought, glaring at the sun, instead, I'm stuck looking like a bronze goddess because of that miserable Shuriman trip. Her grip on her bag tightened at the memory. She glanced at the mirrored surface of her Ferrari as she passed, her reflection smirking back at her. At least I look good in the sun. Small mercies, I suppose. Still, the heat was offensive. She tilted her head skyward, squinting at the relentless glare.
By the time she reached the grand entrance, the oppressive heat had done nothing to dampen her sharp wit or her sharper mood. If anything, it had just made her bitchier. A older man in a stiff black suit was walking toward her with the air of someone who believed his job was very important. His pace was graceful for an old man, his posture painfully upright. If there was ever a head butler cliché straight out of an old novel, it was this guy. Cassiopeia's lips curled into a smirk. Of course, she thought, barely hiding her amusement. Every estate needs its loyal gatekeeper. How quaint. He approached her, stopping at what he clearly considered an appropriately respectful distance. "Miss," he said with a polite nod. "Welcome to House Tariost."
She arched an eyebrow, pushing her sunglasses all the way up onto her head. "Head butler, I presume?" she asked, her voice dripping with casual disdain. She didn't wait for him to answer, waving a hand in a dismissive gesture. The man didn't flinch, his expression an impressive mask of politeness. "I am here to escort you to meet Lady Tariost and her guests," he said evenly, his voice as neutral as his face.
-୨ ୧-
: Katana - Samara Cyn
Cassiopeia leaned against the doorway, her lips curling into a sharp, knowing sneer as the midday sun streamed in behind her, casting a halo of golden light around her figure. Her golden snake-like earrings glinted in the harsh brightness, each movement catching the light like a spark. Her emerald eyes swept over the room, taking in every detail before finally locking onto Riven. That sharp gaze—cold, unyielding, and so damn irritating—met hers. Cassiopeia felt the familiar thrill of the challenge. There you are, she thought, her smirk deepening. Oh, how she loved that gaze. That cold, calculating, unflinching stare that made most people wilt. Most people—but not her. She wasn't most people. A glint of mischief danced in her emerald eyes as she met Riven's stare head-on, reveling in the quiet tension.
Always so smug and handsome, she thought, her amusement bubbling just under the surface. Cassiopeia knew she was beautiful, undeniably so, and she uses it to her advantage to get whatever the fuck she wants out of people easily. The sleek, jet-black waves framing her face, the golden glow of her sun-kissed skin, her crimson lips that seemed perpetually on the verge of a smirk—God must have created her with a huge smile on his face. And it worked every time. Well, almost every time. Riven had always been a tougher nut to crack. A challenge.
"Riven," she purred, stepping further into the room, the soft click of her Louboutin heels echoing in the stillness. "Didn't think I'd see the day you'd come crawling to me for help. Guess I left more of an impression than you care to admit."
Riven's eyes narrowed, her gaze colder than ice. Cassiopeia could practically feel the steel behind those words before they came. "Cut the bullshit, Cassiopeia," Riven said flatly, her tone razor-sharp. "You know why you're here. Do what you're good for, and shut it for the entire time you're here. You'll have my gratitude."
Oh, sweet sweet hotness, that tongue is sharp. Cassiopeia let out a soft, breathy laugh, tilting her head as if she were genuinely amused. "Gratitude? From you? Be still my heart," she said, mockingly clutching her chest. She took a deliberate step closer, her voice dipping to something more dangerous, more intimate. "But let's not pretend this isn't killing you. You wouldn't have called me if you didn't secretly like having me here." Her lips curled into a wicked grin. "Admit it, Riven. You missed me."
Riven didn't flinch, her jaw tightening just enough for Cassiopeia to notice. Oh, how she lived for those tiny cracks in the façade. Across the room, a whisper broke her fun. Loris leaned toward Vi, his voice low but clumsy. "She looks… oddly familiar. I can't place it, but I swear I've seen her before."
Familiar? Cassiopeia thought, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. Of course I'm familiar. Iconic, darling. Try harder.
Then Samantha chimed in, her scowl loud enough to be heard even in silence. "She doesn't just look familiar—she looks exactly like that redhead I've seen with Garen before."
And there it is, Cassiopeia thought bitterly, her smirk faltering for just a second. Father's fucking favorite, she sneered internally. Katarina. Always Katarina. The golden child, the prodigy, the one who could never do wrong in their father's eyes. Cassiopeia swallowed the bitterness quickly, letting it harden into something sharper, something useful.
Samantha wasn't done. "Why was she called in instead of, I don't know, someone actually qualified?"
Cassiopeia's lips twitched, the temptation to cut Samantha down to size almost irresistible. Instead, she tilted her head, letting her gaze flick lazily toward her critics for the briefest moment. "I'm standing right here, you know," she said, her tone saccharine, sweetness dripping in a way that made it clear she thought Samantha's concerns were adorable at best. "Oh, sweetheart," she added, her voice sliding into mock concern, "if you're that worried about my qualifications, I'd be more than happy to walk you through them. Slowly, of course. Wouldn't want you to fall behind."
Her smirk grew sharper when Samantha bristled, but before the satisfying sting of her words could sink in fully, a low, cold voice cut through the tension.
"This isn't about you, Cassiopeia," Riven snapped, her voice laced with an irritation that landed like a slap. She was leaning against the bar, arms crossed, staring with those gorgeous, cold eyes that always seemed to slice through her defenses. "It's about figuring out what the hell happened last night. So stop wasting time."
Cassiopeia shuddered internally, though she masked it with a lazy, practiced smirk. God, why does it have to be the cold ones? There was something infuriatingly magnetic about the way Riven carried herself—all stoic confidence and silent dominance. Ergh, it was maddening, unfair, and far too attractive for Cassiopeia's liking. Her emerald eyes flicked down to the subtle flex of Riven's forearms as she shifted her stance, and Cass bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself in check. She could feel heat rising in her face, though she refused to let it show. The worst part? Riven probably didn't have a clue. That oblivious, impenetrable confidence—that maddening calm—it was enough to drive anyone crazy. Cassiopeia could barely stop herself from staring. Goddamn her for looking this delicious while being this infuriating.
And then Riven's lips parted again, that low, cold voice cutting through the air like a whip, and Cassiopeia swore she felt it in places she absolutely shouldn't. Her weight shifted slightly, her smirk faltering for just a second before she recovered, tossing her hair in a dismissive gesture. She wasn't about to let Riven, of all people, see the effect she was having. But it wasn't the snapping that annoyed her—oh no, she liked it when Riven got all icy and commanding. That particular tone sent a thrill through her every time, much as she hated to admit it. No, it was the glance that did it. That subtle flick of Riven's sharp eyes—cold as ever—shifting away from her. Not toward anything important, not toward the situation at hand, but toward her.
The pale raven-haired girl in the corner.
Cassiopeia's gaze followed instinctively, narrowing ever so slightly as she took in the girl's delicate features, her wide, distressed eyes. Of course. Of course. The girl was the perfect damsel, the kind of soft, vulnerable pretty that made people want to play hero. Cassiopeia rolled her eyes internally. Riven, the knight in tarnished armor, swooping in to save the day? Predictable.
Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag, nails tapping softly against the leather as she swallowed down a surge of irritation. Really, Riven? You're glancing at that when I'm standing right here? The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth, souring her amusement for a moment before she shoved it aside. Cassiopeia turned her attention back to Riven, her smirk reassembling itself into something sharper, more cutting.
"Fine," she said, lifting her hands in a mock display of surrender. "Let's focus, then. But if I'm not allowed to entertain myself, you're going to have to try a little harder to make this interesting." Her voice was sweet, laced with just enough venom to sting. She cast one last glance toward the pale raven-haired girl, a glint of disdain flashing in her emerald eyes, before adjusting her sunglasses with an exaggerated flourish. Her grin turned sharper, more venomous, as she let the heat of her irritation fuel her resolve.
Not that it matters, she thought, her mind racing ahead. I've never been one to lose at anything—even attention.
-୨ ୧-
Yunarin moved quietly around the room, doing her best to ignore the pair of emerald eyes glaring daggers into her back. Every time she glanced up—just a peek—there they were. Watching. Waiting. Judging. Cleopatra's snake eyes. That's what they reminded her of. Sharp, glittering, and full of venom, like at any moment Cassiopeia might lunge forward and sink her teeth into her. It wasn't just the way she looked, though that didn't help—there was something about the way she stared, as if Yunarin were an inconvenience that existed solely to annoy her. Yunarin tried to stay calm, wiping down the bar and pretending like she didn't notice the intense scrutiny, but her hands kept fumbling on simple tasks. She reached for a glass, only to have a sharp, biting voice cut through the air.
"Don't fucking touch the glasses. I need them."
Yunarin flinched, jerking her hand back like the glass was radioactive. She turned slowly, her wide eyes landing on Cassiopeia, who was glaring at her with all the subtlety of a cobra about to strike.
"Oh," Yunarin mumbled, trying to sound apologetic but mostly just sounding small. "Sorry."
Cassiopeia's lips twitched into something that might've been a smirk—or maybe she was just baring her teeth. Yunarin couldn't tell, and frankly, she didn't want to. She turned back to her cleaning, but her hands weren't cooperating anymore. Why did Cassiopeia have to stand there like some sort of rich, vengeful goddess? It wasn't just her looks—though those didn't exactly make her approachable—it was the way she carried herself, like the room belonged to her and anyone else was just lucky to be breathing her air. Yunarin risked another glance at her, and yup, there she was. Eyes narrowed, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at her lips like she knew how much she was getting under Yunarin's skin.
Who even looks like that in real life? Yunarin thought, biting back a sigh. She's like a Bond villain, except worse because she's actually here and yelling at me about glasses.
Her gaze flicked briefly to Riven, who was leaning against the bar, cool as ever, her face giving away absolutely nothing. Yunarin silently pleaded for some kind of intervention, but Riven didn't even look her way. Nope, those icy eyes were locked somewhere else entirely, and Yunarin couldn't help but notice the tiniest flicker of annoyance cross Cassiopeia's face at that. Oh. Oh. Yunarin swallowed. That's why she's glaring at me like she wants me dead.
Cassiopeia shifted slightly, and the glass in Yuna's hand slipped, wobbling dangerously close to the edge of the bar. Before she could fumble any further, a strong hand caught her wrist, steadying her. Yunarin froze, her breath hitching as she looked up to find Riven holding her. That calm, stoic face was as unreadable as ever, but there was something in her eyes—a flicker of concern—that made Yunarin's stomach flip.
"I've got it," Riven said quietly, her voice low and even. She released her grip slowly, but her hand lingered for just a moment longer than necessary, her fingers brushing against Yunarin's skin in a way that sent a shiver racing up her spine. Yuna swallowed hard, her face heating uncontrollably. She quickly looked away, but her thoughts weren't cooperating.
Instead, they dragged her back to the night before—the moment she had been trying so hard to forget. Her lips tingled at the memory, the feeling of Riven's mouth pressed against hers still vivid, like it had happened seconds ago instead of hours. It hadn't been planned—hell, it had barely made sense—but it had happened. Her lips still tingled at the thought, like they were waiting for something, aching for it to happen again.
And now here she was, standing in the middle of a room littered with broken pieces of last night's chaos, blushing like a schoolgirl because Riven had held her wrist.
She dared a glance back at Riven, who had already turned her attention elsewhere, as if nothing had happened. Her stoic mask was firmly back in place, her focus shifting to whatever Cassiopeia had said or done next. Yunarin exhaled shakily, her grip tightening on the glass to steady herself. She could still feel the ghost of Riven's touch, the warmth of her hand lingering like an echo. She didn't dare look at Cassiopeia. Somehow, she knew that snake-like gaze would be sharper than ever, and she wasn't sure if she could handle that kind of attention—not when her thoughts were already this scrambled.
The sound of soft footsteps broke through her spiral, and a familiar voice spoke gently beside her. "Hey," Caitlyn said, her tone calm but laced with concern. Yunarin blinked, startled, and turned to see Caitlyn standing a few feet away, holding a broom in one hand. Her sharp blue eyes, so different from Cassiopeia's cutting gaze, softened as they met Yuna's. Caitlyn tilted her head slightly, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face as she studied her.
"You alright?" Caitlyn asked, her voice quiet but firm. She stepped closer, resting one hand lightly on the broom handle as if trying not to make Yunarin feel cornered.
Yuna opened her mouth to answer, but the words caught in her throat. Was she alright? No, not really. She could still feel Riven's hand on her wrist, could still taste the memory of that kiss, and her chest felt like it was caught in some kind of storm. But admitting any of that aloud? Not a chance.
"I'm fine," she said quickly, too quickly, her voice a touch higher than usual. She forced a smile that she knew Caitlyn wouldn't buy, not for a second. Caitlyn arched an elegant brow, clearly unimpressed by the deflection. She glanced toward the bar, where Riven stood, and then back at Yuna, a flicker of understanding passing across her face.
"Are you sure?" she asked, her tone light but pointed. "Because you look like you're about to pass out—or cry into the glass."
Yunarin laughed nervously, gripping the glass a little tighter. "I'm just… tired," she lied, shifting her weight awkwardly. "It has been… a long morning."
Caitlyn didn't look convinced, but she didn't push. Instead, she offered a small, knowing smile and leaned in slightly. Yunarin couldn't help but smile back, the tension in her chest easing just a little. Caitlyn gave her a nod and stepped back, resuming her sweeping as if nothing had happened. But before she moved too far, she cast one last glance at Yuna, her expression unreadable, and then at Riven. Yuna could've sworn there was something almost amused in Caitlyn's eyes before she turned away completely.
Yunarin was busy wiping down yet another spotless corner of the bar—more out of a need to keep her hands busy than anything else—when the door flew open with a dramatic flourish, slamming against the wall with a thud.
"Good morning, beautiful people!" Seraphine sang, practically skipping into the room like she was auditioning for the lead role in a musical.
Yuna nearly jumped out of her skin, clutching the rag in her hand as if it might somehow protect her from the sudden burst of energy. The room, which had been tense and quiet save for Samantha's muttered swearing and the occasional scrape of furniture being moved, was suddenly flooded with Seraphine's unrelenting positivity.
Seraphine's pink curls bounced as she twirled once in the center of the room, her face glowing with the kind of radiance that could only come from someone who'd had a perfect night's sleep and possibly a triple-shot latte.
"Wow, it's so quiet in here," she said, clasping her hands together as she looked around. "It's like a funeral! Did someone die? Or is this just your faces?"
Caitlyn, who had been leaning against the broom she was using earlier, let out a long, tired sigh and rubbed her temples. "Sera," she said, her voice heavy with exasperation. "You were drugged last night. And this is your response…?"
Seraphine turned to Caitlyn, unfazed by the sharpness in her tone, and smiled brightly. "That's why I'm here to cheer everyone up! You're welcome, by the way."
Caitlyn gave her a flat look, but before she could respond, Samantha's voice cut through the air like a buzzsaw.
"No, Jeremy," she barked into her phone, pacing furiously in the corner. "I don't care why it's delayed—just get it done. Today. Now. Do you understand the concept of a deadline, or should I spell it out for you?"
Seraphine glanced toward Samantha, her eyebrows lifting slightly. "Yikes," she said under her breath before turning back to Caitlyn. "Is she okay? Should someone—?"
"She's fine," Caitlyn said, cutting her off, though her tone was more resigned than reassuring. "Or she will be, once the movers get their act together. Until then, just… maybe tone it down a little?"
Seraphine gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. "Tone it down? Caitlyn, that's like asking the sun not to shine. You wouldn't deprive everyone of this energy, would you?"
Caitlyn stared at her for a moment, deadpan. "Yes. Yes, I would."
Yunarin bit back a nervous laugh, keeping her head down as she wiped the same spot on the bar for the fifth time. Seraphine's bubbly energy was so out of place in the tension-filled room, it was almost comical. But the comedy didn't last long.
"Would you all just shut the fuck up?!" Cassiopeia's voice cracked through the room like a whip, sharp and venomous.
Yuna froze mid-wipe, her heart skipping a beat as the words echoed around them. Everyone went silent, all eyes instinctively flicking to Snake-eyes herself. Cassiopeia stood at her makeshift lab, her hands gripping the edge of the counter like she was holding herself back from throwing something. Her emerald eyes flicked across the room, lingering for a fraction of a second on each of them. "I am trying to work," she hissed, her voice cold enough to drop the temperature of the room. "So unless one of you has a sudden urge to be useful, shut up and stay out of my way."
The silence stretched uncomfortably.
"Then keep working," Riven said, her voice low and steady as she stepped forward. She positioned herself in front of Seraphine, her broad shoulders cutting off Cassiopeia's line of sight to the pink-haired whirlwind. "Ignore the noise. Focus on whatever it is you're doing."
Cassiopeia's glare shifted to Riven, her eyes narrowing. "That's exactly what I was doing before I was interrupted," she snapped, her tone dripping with disdain.
Seraphine huffed loudly from behind Riven, her arms crossing over her chest as she leaned dramatically to the side, trying to make herself visible around Riven's imposing figure. "Well, excuse me, Your Highness," she said, her voice dripping with mock offense. "I didn't realize we were all supposed to tiptoe around your super secret science project."
Riven didn't move, her stance as immovable as a stone wall, but her voice carried an edge of finality. "Seraphine," she said quietly, "just let her work."
Yunarin couldn't help but feel a little awe at Riven's ability to diffuse the situation with so little effort. Even Seraphine, as persistent as she was, backed down slightly, though she muttered something under her breath that Yuna couldn't quite catch. With a dramatic sigh, Seraphine threw her hands in the air. "Fine," she said, stepping back and flouncing toward the opposite corner of the room. "But for the record, I'm not the one who needs to lighten up."
Cassiopeia muttered something under her breath, too low for Yuna to hear, before returning to her work with an audible clink of glass. The room settled into a heavy silence again, but the tension remained, crackling just beneath the surface.
-୨ ୧-
: Come Hell or High Water - Steelfeather
The clink of porcelain against wood was the only sound that broke the tension in the dimly lit room. Cassandra Kiramman lifted the teacup to her lips, the distinct aroma of Zaun black tea curling in the air—a blend that carried the weight of its origins in every sip. It was bold, earthy, and unapologetically raw, much like the man who had served it to her. Vander leaned against the bar, his massive arms crossed over his chest, his watchful eyes studying her with a calm that matched the air of the Last Drop itself. The place was quieter than she had expected, its usual frenetic energy dulled by the early hour and the purposeful absence of its more disruptive patrons. She had requested privacy, after all, and Vander had been obliging enough to grant it.
"Your tea," he said simply, his voice a low rumble that carried a sense of finality, as if he had already decided what he thought of her presence here.
Cassandra lowered the cup gracefully, placing it back on its saucer. "Thank you," she said, her tone clipped but polite. "It's... an acquired taste."
Vander's lips quirked slightly at the corners, though the expression didn't quite reach his eyes. "Most things from Zaun are," he replied, his words carrying the kind of measured wisdom that suggested he had heard every kind of opinion about his city—and cared for none of them.
Cassandra straightened in her seat, the rigid poise of her upbringing settling over her like armor. She didn't come to the Last Drop for idle chatter or pleasantries. Her presence here, in this dimly lit space that seemed so far removed from the pristine world of Piltover, was deliberate.
"I'll get to the point," she began, her voice crisp and precise. "You've seen the video."
It wasn't a question.
Vander didn't move, but there was a subtle flicker in his sharp blue eyes—a spark of recognition, of understanding. He reached for the kettle, pouring himself another cup with the same deliberate care he applied to everything. "I've seen it," he said at last, his tone neutral.
Cassandra nodded once, as though she had anticipated his response. "Then you understand why I'm here."
Vander leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on the bar, his eyes locked onto hers. "I might. But I'd rather hear it from you."
She held his gaze, her expression serious. "The contents of that video are highly concerning. It has... implications. And not just for Caitlyn, but for Violet as well. Our daughters, Vander. A Kiramman caught drinking and dancing on a surface as questionable as the Last Drop's own floor might be excused as a youthful indiscretion. But Caitlyn isn't just any young woman. She's my daughter. She carries the weight of Piltover's expectations on her shoulders." She leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharp as a blade. "And now she's being framed as a Kiramman wild child corrupted by a Kane's bad influence."
Vander's eyes narrowed, his calm cracking just slightly at the edges. "Corrupted?" he said, his voice low, carrying a quiet edge of warning.
"Don't misunderstand me," Cassandra replied smoothly. "This isn't about blame. It's about perception. Damage control. Because whatever your Vi may or may not have done, Caitlyn is inextricably tied to her now—by this video, by association, by choice. And we both know the world isn't kind to girls like ours when the narrative slips out of their control."
Vander straightened, his arms crossing again as he studied her. "Vi doesn't control Caitlyn. Caitlyn makes her own choices, same as Vi."
"Of course she does," Cassandra said, her tone softening slightly, though her words remained firm. "But do you think the people who watched that video will see it that way? Or will they see what's being fed to them? A story of a Kiramman heir brought low by a Kane's recklessness. A Piltover elite dragging herself through the mud of Zaun. Scandal, Vander. Scandal. And once it takes hold, it's almost impossible to shake."
After a long moment, he sighed, leaning forward slightly. "What do you want from me, Cassandra?"
Cassandra lifted her teacup, taking a slow, deliberate sip before setting it down with the air of a woman far too exasperated to fully hide it. "What do I want from you, Vander?" she echoed, her tone laced with dry sarcasm. "I want you to find Vi and have her do the impossible—get Caitlyn to actually speak to me. Because my darling daughter has apparently decided that ignoring my calls is the hill she's going to die on this week."
-୨ ୧-
Vi leaned against the cold stone pillar at the entrance of the Tariost estate, her phone propped awkwardly in one hand while her other hand fidgeted with the strap of her wrist brace. The faint buzz of chaos buzzed around her, but her attention stayed glued to the screen. Loris was somewhere behind her, wrestling a drunk partier toward a taxi while grumbling under his breath. Meanwhile, Gerard, with the patience of a saint and the air of someone who had seen everything, orchestrated the scene like it was a symphony—if symphonies involved wrangling kids who couldn't stand up straight and stopping them from face-planting into the nearest hedge.
"Alright, listen," Vi said into the phone, keeping her voice low but sharp enough to cut through the noise around her. Ekko's face was already leaning in, his brows knit in that Ekko's about to get all technical way. "I need you guys to help me out. That Hexgram video? It's everywhere. Cait and I, front and center—drinking, dancing, making asses of ourselves—and whoever posted it made sure we look like absolute trainwrecks."
Ekko tilted his head, his expression equal parts concern and curiosity. "So, what's the ask here? You want us to wipe it off the sphere?"
"Yes," Vi said bluntly, shifting her weight as her boots scuffed against the stone. "Or, I don't know, block it, slow it down—just make it go away before it spreads more. You guys are the tech wizards; figure it out."
From somewhere off-screen, Powder's head popped into view, her blue eyes wide and already sparking with trouble. "Wait, wait, wait. Back up. Why would you care about the video? It's just you and Piltie slutting it out on the dancefloor. Big whoop."
Vi groaned, tipping her head back to stare at the sky for strength. "It's not about me," she snapped, her voice dropping when Gerard's disapproving glance flicked her way as he ushered another drunk into a taxi. "It's about Cait. This kind of thing could blow up bad for her. And I'm not gonna let that happen."
"Aww," Powder cooed, resting her chin in her hands and grinning like she'd caught Vi in the act of something embarrassing. "Vi's being all protective and stuff. That's adorable."
"Focus, Pow," Vi growled, glaring at the screen. "Can you help or not?"
Ekko straightened, scratching the back of his neck. "It's doable, but it's not gonna be easy. The Hexgram sphere's a beast. We'd need to trace the upload, track the account, and figure out how to lock it down. That's not a quick fix."
Vi glanced back at Loris, who was now in some kind of standoff with a giggling drunk who refused to get into the taxi. "I don't care if it's quick. Just tell me it's possible."
Powder's fingers were already clattering away on her laptop, her excitement so loud it practically came through the screen. "Oh, it's possible," she said, her tone chipper. "But it's gonna take some next-level, super illegal hacking. And probably some snacks."
Vi pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting the urge to yell. "Powder, this isn't time to think about snacks."
"Everything's about good snacks," Powder shot back, her grin widening. "But fine, serious face on. We'll help. You owe us big time sis."
Vi's lips twitched into a half-smile. "Thanks kid." She ended the call with a sharp tap and shoved the phone into her pocket. Behind her, Loris appeared, rubbing his shoulder with an exaggerated grimace.
"So, what's the plan now, boss?" he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
Vi rolled her shoulders, her eyes narrowing as she cracked her knuckles. "Next?" she said, her voice steady. "We find out who's behind this fucking crap."
END OF CHAPTER SEVENTEEN