Chapter Text
The world was a blur of noise, sweat, and flashing lights. The underground pit reeked of stale beer and desperation, but to Caitlyn Kiramman, it was home—at least for the night. Her chest heaved as she spat out a mouthful of blood, grinning at the hulking figure in front of her. The metallic taste only fueled her.
“Is that all you’ve got?” she taunted, her accent barely recognizable under the grit in her voice, tongue darting out to clean the blood off her split lip. Her fingers brushed the black paint streaking down her cheeks, smearing it further as she adjusted her stance. The crowd roared, a feral hymn to violence and spectacle, and to her, this was what freedom felt like. No Kiramman name, no obligations, no polished halls or pristine manners. Just her, her fists, and the next fight.
The man lunged, but she was quicker, ducking under his swing and slamming her elbow into his side. Pain flared in her ribs from a blow she’d taken earlier, but she embraced it because this kind at least didn’t come with strings attached or false smiles. Here, in the pit, she could hurt and be hurt and know exactly where she stood. And every hit she’d take, she knew where the pain was coming from.
The fight ended with Caitlyn standing over her opponent, arms raised in triumph as the crowd’s cheers washed over her. Someone shoved a drink into her hand—probably a mix of something illegal and barely palatable—and she downed it without hesitation, the burn settling into a pleasant warmth in her gut.
As the crowd dispersed and the adrenaline started to fade, Caitlyn lingered in the dim, grimy locker room, taking off the sweat and blood-soaked bandages that covered her arms. The ones binding her chest were left as they were, despite being just as battered. Her ribs ached, and her knuckles throbbed where the skin had split, reminding her she was alive, unbound.
Her reflection stared back from a cracked mirror. She dabbed at her face with a rag, the black paint smearing into something more abstract and less recognizable from even her own self. The person she was here was utterly foreign to the Kiramman heiress she had once seen.
Marksman, they called her here. Not Caitlyn.
And, in truth, that was who she really was. Fast as the bullets in the rifles she used to hold, as precise as a headshot, and dangerous like one too. But most importantly, Marksman didn’t carry the weight of expectations or a family name. Marksman was her, and hers alone.
Caitlyn flexed her hands, reliving the rush of the fight, and her trigger finger twitched as if in search of the Marksman’s missing rifle. She pulled on her jacket with the collar upturned and left the pit to disappear back into the streets.
The cool night air made her shiver as she climbed the rickety stairs to the surface, the echo of the crowd’s chants still humming in her ears.
Caitlyn looked up at the murals painted on the taller buildings and inhaled the grim air deeply. This part of Zaun, dark and brimming with potential danger, felt more honest than any shimmering ballroom or polished corridor in Piltover.
She rounded a corner, adjusting the collar of the jacket to cover her face, and collided with a wall—or at least, it felt like one. Instinctively, her hands came up, braced for a fight, because it wasn’t a wall. It was a person.
“Hey, watch it—” the voice cut off sharply, and Caitlyn’s sharp blue eyes flicked to the person’s face, meeting an arresting pair of grayer ones, and then down.
Enforcer blues.
The uniform was unmistakable, covering the woman in front of her in authority.
She was tall, but not taller than Caitlyn; broad-shouldered and radiating a presence that should have made Caitlyn step back. Instead, Caitlyn stood her ground, tracking every detail she could land her eyes on, from the slightly disheveled uniform to the messy pink hair with darker, almost red strands catching in the dim light.
Caitlyn’s gaze lingered on the tiny VI tattoo under the woman’s left eye, curious about the personal touch that didn’t belong on someone who wore blues.
Her lips curled upward despite herself.
It was a mark that hinted at a history beyond the badge, a streak of recklessness or just something incredibly unorthodox.
Caitlyn liked that.
The enforcer took a half-step back, steadying herself. “You alright?” she asked, voice gruff but edged with something else. Curiosity? Concern?
Caitlyn tilted her head, weighing her options.
“You’re asking me?” Her voice was hoarse from all the shouting she did in the pit, but there was a deliberate taunt in her tone. The accent she worked so hard to bury in the pit curled naturally into her tone, low and lilting. “Shouldn’t you be worried about yourself, Officer? Blues in Zaun are not exactly welcomed.”
There was a sting in her top lip when she tried to grin, so her tongue darted out to press on the split lip, flashing her smile like a blade in the dim light.
The enforcer’s eyes narrowed, scanning Caitlyn. Not in the way the crowds watched her in the pit, though. This was sharper, more focused, as if trying to piece together a puzzle.
Caitlyn knew she should slip away before the enforcer asked too many questions, but an enforcer who didn’t recognize the shade of blue in her hair and whose eyes didn’t land on the crest tattooed on her back was no threat to Caitlyn.
Instead, there was something about the way the woman’s eyes lingered on her paint-smudged face and the bloodied bandages peeking from under her open jacket that made Caitlyn stay.
“Been in a fight?” the enforcer asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
“What gave it away?” Caitlyn drawled, stepping closer, the wariness between them crackling like static. She caught the faintest hitch in the enforcer’s breath as she moved into her space, just enough to unsettle, to distract. Just enough to tempt.
The enforcer tilted her head, eyes narrowing. Then came her voice, confused, just slightly above a whisper. “What are you doing?”
The way the big gray-blue eyes looked up at her, too cute to be under that stupid enforcer beret, made Caitlyn chew on her lower lip.
“Don’t worry, Officer.” Caitlyn poked the enforcer’s jacket, her fingertip sliding at the seams. “I’m not your problem tonight.”
The enforcer opened her mouth, but no words came out. Caitlyn smirked, slipping past her. She didn’t look back, though she didn’t need to. She could feel those gray-blue eyes pinned on her, tracking her retreat like a heat signature in the dark.
By the time the shadows of Zaun swallowed her again, Caitlyn’s pulse was pounding in her ears—not from exertion, but from something else more akin to hunger. She hadn’t felt it in a long time, and it was almost enough to distract her from the ache in her ribs or the metallic tang still lingering in her mouth.
Almost.
Caitlyn didn’t indulge. Not tonight. Not with an enforcer. Not with anyone.
Whenever she allowed herself to give, it was always Marksman she offered—sharpened edges and calculated distance—never Caitlyn Kiramman. And certainly not to a woman who, for a fleeting moment, made her remember that once, a lifetime ago, she wanted to put on that stupid beret.
She focused instead on the next day.
Caitlyn, or rather Marksman, reveled in another fight.
This time, it was a scrappy brawler who relied more on brute force than skill. Easy to predict, easier to outmaneuver. Caitlyn danced circles around him, landing sharp strikes that sent the crowd into a frenzy.
In fights like these, she always remembered her father’s background as a medic and how, in her boredom around the Kiramman estate’s halls, she had memorized almost every book in their possession. Now she could hit with ease all the right spots to destabilize her opponent, even when she wasn’t the strongest; she rarely was.
Caitlyn was, however, extremely precise. Not like a surgeon such as her father—no, she was precise like a Marksman.
Her chest heaved when the fight ended, the rush still fresh in her veins when she showed her middle finger to some guys who suggested her opponent must have had reasons to let her win.
It wasn’t Caitlyn’s fault they had bet against the wrong person.
She didn’t linger to drink this time, and definitely not for more fighting. Her ribs ached more than usual, and the blood dripping from her knuckles felt colder against the night air.
The collar of her jacket was up, shadows clinging to her like second skin as she navigated the alleyways leading back toward the place she was staying, still away from Piltover’s upper reaches.
Once, she might have returned to a manor instead of a dingy flat. The Kiramman estate had been a fortress of elegance and purpose, where Caitlyn had been the perfect heir. Still, she had come to hate the suffocating way every single one of her actions was scrutinized for how it would reflect on her family’s name.
She’d found the cracks in that polished world—the whispers of corruption, the exploitation of Zaunites that kept Piltover’s golden gears turning—and tried to fix them, first as the dutiful daughter, then as an enforcer. But her voice had been stifled at every turn, dismissed by superiors who saw her as naive and undercut by parents who were more concerned with reputation than justice.
Their disappointment, cold and precise, weighed heavier than any reprimand.
The system she’d believed she could change only mocked her efforts, its rules immovable, its flaws etched too deeply into its foundation.
Caitlyn Kiramman, heir to nothing she wanted, had walked away.
She discarded her name like an ill-fitting coat, descending into Zaun’s shadowed depths where there were no Kiramman expectations or legacy she had to uphold.
She had tried to make a difference on her own until the weight of failure crushed her. Unable to rewrite the rules or outrun her disillusionment, she turned to the pits, to fighting and drinking, until the sting of failure was dulled to a distant ache.
The pits welcomed her anger and precision, the sharpness of her fists, and the calm in her chaos. Here, she was Marksman—a fighter, a disruptor, and no one’s heir.
She’d barely rounded a corner when a familiar figure stepped into her path.
Pink hair. Broad shoulders. That same piercing gray-blue gaze that felt like it could peel back every single one of Caitlyn’s layers until she was nothing but the heat coiled inside her body.
“Fancy seeing you again,” Caitlyn said, her voice smooth, her grin sharper than the knife strapped to her boot. She took her time assessing the enforcer in the dim streetlight, noting the slight tension in her stance. The woman’s hand rested near her hip, where handcuffs hung at the ready.
The fact that she recognized Caitlyn almost immediately, too, was something to be noted, something to be explored.
“You make a habit of wandering into trouble?” the enforcer shot back.
“Trouble?” Caitlyn echoed, tilting her head as if the word were foreign to her. “That’s a bit harsh. I’m just out for a walk. You’re the one standing in my way.”
The enforcer’s brow arched, her arms crossing over her chest in a display that was either defensive or deliberate. Caitlyn couldn’t decide which, but either way, it suited her—the muscles in her arms flexing were incredibly inviting, at least.
“You look like you’ve been through hell,” the enforcer said, eyes flicking over Caitlyn’s bruised knuckles and the dried blood on her chest. “Been in another fight?”
Caitlyn shrugged, the motion casual, almost dismissive. “Depends on who’s asking. Are you here to arrest me, Officer? Or are you just curious?”
The enforcer blinked, clearly caught off guard for a moment before recovering. “You’re bold for someone who’s got blood on their hands—literally.”
“You think I’m dangerous?” Caitlyn chuckled low, her voice a velvet drawl. “Careful, Officer. Flattery like that might make me blush.”
A flicker of something passed over the enforcer’s face—amusement, perhaps, or maybe irritation. Caitlyn couldn’t tell, but she liked the way it made the other woman’s jaw tighten.
“Name,” the enforcer said finally, straightening. “Now.”
Caitlyn tapped her chin, feigning thought. “Hmm, I don’t think I’ll give you that.”
The enforcer’s brow furrowed. “Do you want to make this harder for yourself?”
“Absolutely,” Caitlyn said, grinning widely. “But you can call me Marksman if you’d like.”
The enforcer exhaled sharply. “Marksman, huh?” she repeated, as if testing the name.
“Shouldn’t you give me yours, too?” Caitlyn smirked, her time as an enforcer giving her enough confidence to add, “Isn’t it procedure for an enforcer to provide their name?”
The enforcer hesitated for a moment, her gaze narrowing.
“It’s Violet,” she said at last, her tone clipped but not unkind.
“Violet,” Caitlyn echoed with a smile, letting the name roll off her tongue, savoring it like a sweet dessert. “Well, Violet, do you think I deserve a bit more than just your name?”
“You deserve a night in a cell,” the enforcer shot back, though the corner of her mouth twitched as if fighting a smile.
Caitlyn leaned against the brick wall, her posture relaxed.
“Buy me a drink instead. Then I might consider letting you cuff me, Officer um—” She bit her lower lip, eyes flicking to the tiny tattoo under the enforcer’s eye, before completing, “Vi.”
The enforcer stared at her, a war of exasperation and intrigue playing out in her eyes.
Finally, she muttered something under her breath and stepped back, creating space between them. “Stay out of trouble, Marksman. Next time, I won’t let you off so easy.”
Caitlyn gave a mock salute, her grin unfading. “I’ll be good. Promise.”
Vi turned to leave, but Caitlyn’s gaze lingered, trailing over her retreating form with unapologetic curiosity. The way her uniform clung to her frame, the subtle shift of muscle beneath the fabric—it was enough to send a rush of heat through Caitlyn’s veins, pooling low and heavy in her stomach.
As the shadows swallowed Vi, Caitlyn shoved her hands into her pockets, a smirk tugging at her lips. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
Violet couldn’t shake her.
Every time she closed her eyes, Marksman was there, with that bloodied grin, moving like she owned the shadows that wrapped around her like a well-worn jacket. Marksman wasn’t someone Vi could put in a box.
Criminal? Maybe. Bystander? Unlikely. Something else entirely? That’s what gnawed at Vi’s mind.
Marksman seemed to be chaos personified, and chaos didn’t fit neatly into Vi’s report templates.
Being an enforcer in Zaun was never easy, especially because it came with additional unspoken rules and the blurred lines between survival and corruption. She knew that half the time she was putting out fires Piltover lit in the first place.
Vi didn’t like it. Being an enforcer.
It wasn’t her dream or even her idea. Growing up in Zaun, the line between hero and criminal was thinner than shimmer on a blade, and Vi had lived on both sides.
Years back, after crawling out from the wreckage of a failed job with her old gang and into Piltover’s sights, they’d given her a choice: prison or a badge. At the end of the day, it wasn’t really a choice, and since then she’d try telling herself she could use that to make a difference, even in Zaun, but the truth was that it was never about justice, and the badge was just her way of keeping her family safe.
Powder, the people she cared about, and the memory of those she couldn’t save.
Everything she did came back to that.
The badge didn’t mean much to the people down here, but to Vi, it was a symbol—to herself, not to Piltover—that she’d protect the parts of Zaun most enforcers ignored, the places Piltover dismissed as beyond saving.
It wasn’t perfect. It never would be. But it gave her access to resources she’d never have otherwise. Weapons, intel, and a badge that opened doors Zaunites couldn’t touch. It let her protect people who couldn’t protect themselves, even if it came with the bitter taste of compromise.
Vi had faced her share of Zaun’s roughest, fighting to clean up the streets she once bled in. She’d thrown down with smugglers, gangsters, and more petty thugs than she could count, but that didn’t mean she believed in Piltover’s justice. To her, it was a means to an end, a tool she could wield to protect her own, even if the system itself were rotting.
It was her job, whether she liked it or not.
And her job demanded constant vigilance, a clear line between right and wrong, but Marksman blurred those lines.
It wasn’t just that she showed up at crime scenes or skulked in alleys where illegal deals went down, but also her timing. The uncanny way Marksman was always on the periphery of something bigger. There’d been an uptick in smuggling operations in those parts—rare tech, weapons, even stolen shimmer supplies—and Marksman’s shadow always seemed to stroll near the evidence. She wasn’t carrying contraband, not that Vi could prove, but the coincidence was too perfect to ignore.
Vi had started to think of Marksman as a lead, albeit an aggravating one. A puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit but felt too important to discard.
Vi told herself it was the thrill of the chase that had her hooked, the challenge of pinning Marksman down to something concrete, but deep down, she knew better. Marksman was already in her head, circling like a predator, and Vi hated it.
More than that, she hated how often she wondered if Marksman saw the badge for what it really was: a leash Piltover had looped around her neck. Or if she shared the thoughts Vi once had about every person wearing enforcer blues before she was pulled into their game.
Did Marksman see through her? Did she see the part of Vi that still remembered the feel of Zaun’s streets under her boots, the air thick with grime and freedom, before she was forced to trade it all for a uniform she could barely stand? A uniform that, even though it was perfectly made with all the right measures, didn’t quite fit her. Not something that was made for her, but something that was done to her.
Whatever Marksman thought shouldn’t matter to her, but it hit Vi harder than any fist ever could.
The next time Vi saw her, it was near the docks, where Zaun’s murky streets kissed Piltover’s sterile borders, following a tip about an illegal shipment—high-end gear that was bound to make its way into the wrong hands. She found Marksman perched casually on a stack of crates, inspecting her bloodied knuckles under the weak light like she didn’t have a care in the world, and Vi’s first thought was nowhere near tactical.
“Missed me already?” Marksman drawled, her voice tickling at Vi’s defenses. She pushed off the crate, and even that simple movement looked like a provocation. “Because you’re either stalking me or terrible at your job. Which is it?”
Vi squared her shoulders, deliberately setting her jaw. “You’ve got a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Wrong place?” Marksman tilted her head, the smirk on her lips pure provocation. “Or exactly where I need to be?”
Vi’s instincts screamed at her to cuff this woman, drag her to the precinct, and finally put an end to this dance. But what if she was wrong? What if Marksman wasn’t part of the smuggling ring but something entirely different? A distraction? A decoy?
“Cut the crap,” Vi snapped, stepping closer. “What’s your angle? Are you working for someone, or just stirring the pot for fun?”
Marksman’s smile widened, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “You think I’m working for someone? I’m flattered, but no. I’m just… observing.”
“Observing what?” Vi shot back, her voice low and sharp.
“Everything.” Marksman leaned in, her breath warm against the cold night air. “But mostly you.”
Vi shifted her weight, instinctively planting her feet. Marksman was close now, close enough that Vi could smell the faint tang of blood and sweat mixed with something warmer, more human. It was incredibly distracting.
“Skulking around crime scenes, taunting enforcers—what’s your endgame?”
Marksman tilted her head, studying Vi like she was the most fascinating puzzle in the world. “Who says I have one?”
“Everyone has an angle,” Vi shot back. “And I’m not going to stand here while you play coy.”
Marksman’s grin softened, turning almost contemplative.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do have an angle. Or maybe…” She trailed off, her voice dipping lower as she leaned in just enough to make Vi’s pulse stutter. “Maybe I just like watching you squirm.”
Vi’s fists clenched at her sides in an effort to keep herself from reacting too strongly. She didn’t know what might have come out of it.
Marksman had an uncanny ability to twist the air between them into something electric, something volatile. It was infuriating. And intoxicating.
It became a pattern.
Vi’s nights became a blur of patrols and near-misses, her mind haunted by the ghost of this operation and Marksman’s grin. She was convinced Marksman knew more than she let on, her presence at key locations too deliberate to be a coincidence.
One night, Vi finally caught up to her in a crowded market. She’d been trailing a smuggler when Marksman appeared, slipping through the crowd, and when their eyes met, Marksman winked before vanishing into an alley. Vi cursed under her breath and took off after her.
When she cornered Marksman in a dead-end alley, her frustration boiled over.
“Running out of places to hide,” Vi said, trying to catch her breath.
Marksman leaned casually against the wall, unfazed.
“Hide? I think you’ve got the wrong idea, Officer. I wanted you to catch me.”
Vi took a step closer, trying to ignore the way her stomach flipped at the challenge in Marksman’s voice. “You think this is a game?”
Marksman shrugged, the movement slow and deliberate. “Depends. Are you having fun yet?”
Vi’s fists clenched, but she didn’t move.
“Here’s the thing,” Marksman said, her voice dropping to a murmur. “You could arrest me right now. Drag me back to your shiny precinct and lock me up. But you won’t.”
Vi swallowed hard, her jaw tightening. “And why’s that?”
Marksman stepped forward, closing the distance, the faint smell of something alcoholic floating between them. Her gaze flicked over Vi’s face, lingering on her mouth before meeting her eyes.
“Because you don’t know whether you want to cuff me or kiss me.”
Vi’s breath caught, and for a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Marksman was too close, her presence overwhelming. She was so clearly drunk, and Vi hated how much she wanted to reach out and—
“See you around, Officer,” Marksman whispered smoothly, tipping an imaginary hat before turning to leave with that infuriating, perfect smirk plastered on her lips. And then she was gone, leaving Vi alone in the alley with her thoughts—and her frustration.
Vi felt the weight of her badge pressing against her hip and told herself it was just another case, another lead to follow, but deep down she knew it was more than that.
Each encounter, every taunt, every smirk, every calculated touch that lingered just a second too long chipped away at her resolve. She told herself it was just a matter of time before she figured out who Marksman really was, but deep down, she wasn’t sure what she’d do with the truth—or with Marksman herself.
The pit wasn’t where Vi intended to end up that night, but it was like a call.
After weeks of chasing Marksman’s ghost through the streets, she had filtered the keywords in a bar.
Marksman. Fight. Pit.
She couldn’t ignore it.
The sounds hit her first with a mix of the guttural roar of the crowd and the sharp crack of fists meeting flesh. Vi didn’t shy away from a good fight, but this wasn’t her kind of scene.
Too much chaos, too much booze, too many moving parts.
She kept to the shadows, her enforcer jacket tucked away to avoid drawing attention. The crowd pressed in, bodies jostling as they roared for blood, and Vi forced herself through, catching glimpses of the pit. Fighters circled each other like wolves, muscles taut, fists raised, their faces painted with either determination or desperation.
In Marksman’s case, it was actual paint.
She stood in the center of the pit, barefoot, stripped down to nothing but a pair of low-slung pants and bandages tightly wrapped around her arms and chest. Sweat glistened on her skin under the dim, uneven lighting, highlighting the intricate tattoos that covered her back. Black ink sprawled from her shoulders down to her waist in patterns she couldn’t make out from that far away, but that somehow Vi couldn’t look away from.
Marksman was lean but incredibly muscular, toned in all the right places. Vi knew she should’ve expected that, but seeing the way her back flexed every time she threw a punch somehow made the realization hit even harder.
She hated how the sight of the tattoos rippling over the woman’s muscles stirred something hot and unwanted within her.
No wonder Marksman was so popular. She was actually magnetic, every movement commanding attention. Warpaint streaked her face down her neck and onto her shoulders, smeared and glistening with sweat, and her grin was wild, sharp, and utterly infuriating. She looked every bit like the predator she always pretended to be in their encounters—but here, it wasn’t an act. This was her element, her playground.
The way Marksman moved made Vi’s fists itch, though she wasn’t sure if it was the urge to fight her or something else entirely.
“Come on,” Marksman sneered, rolling her shoulders as her opponent lunged. She ducked under the swing with ease, pivoting and delivering a brutal uppercut that sent the man staggering back. “Is that really the best you’ve got? I was expecting a challenge.”
The crowd erupted, their cheers deafening, but Vi barely heard them. Her focus narrowed to Marksman, to the way her muscles tensed and shifted beneath inked skin, to the sharp rise and fall of her chest, to the taunting smirk that seemed to drip with confidence.
Marksman wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, blood smeared across her knuckles, and smirked like she was having the time of her life.
Another punch came, and Marksman dodged it with infuriating ease, weaving in close to drive her fist into the man’s side. He grunted in pain, but she didn’t back off, pressing her advantage with a ferocity that made Vi’s heart pound.
She was cocky, reckless, and so goddamn good at what she did. Every move was calculated, every taunt deliberate. She played the crowd as much as her opponent, her voice cutting through the chaos like a knife.
“What’s the matter?” Marksman called out, a laugh bubbling up as her opponent stumbled again. “Getting tired already? You’re making this too easy.”
“They say she’s Piltover blood,” someone near Vi muttered, their voice a mix of awe and disbelief, “but she fights like she’s lived here her whole life.”
The words stuck in Vi’s mind, threading through her thoughts as she watched Marksman dominate the ring.
Piltover blood.
It was hard to reconcile.
Nothing about Marksman—the wild grin, the raw ferocity, the way she owned every inch of the pit—fit with the pristine image of Piltover’s elite. If she really was from Piltover, she’d burned away whatever polish the city had given her, leaving only sharp edges and fire behind.
Vi felt her jaw tighten, heat crawling up her neck as she watched Marksman dominate the fight, thriving on the pain and the thrill of it all. There was nothing polished about her, nothing restrained. She was a wildfire, burning bright and unapologetically destructive.
When the fight ended, it was no surprise who stood victorious. Marksman raised her arms, bloodied and triumphant, as the crowd chanted her name. She soaked it in, grinning as if she’d just won a crown instead of a brawl.
Vi clenched her fists, her pulse racing for reasons she didn’t want to name. And then, as if she could feel Vi’s eyes on her, Marksman’s gaze cut through the crowd, landing directly on her.
For a heartbeat, the chaos of the pit faded, the roar of the crowd dulling to a distant hum. The Marksman’s grin shifted into a smirk and, slowly, she raised a bloodied hand, two fingers tapping her temple in a mock salute.
Vi’s throat went dry.
Before she could react, Marksman disappeared into the chaos of the pit, leaving Vi rooted in place, heat pooling low in her gut. She should’ve gone after her, should’ve arrested her on the spot for whatever shady business she was wrapped up in, but she just stood there.
Arrest her or kiss her.
That thought lodged in Vi’s brain by Marksman herself wasn’t hypothetical anymore.
Worse, Vi wasn’t sure which urge burned hotter.
By the time she left the pit, she was scowling at the pavement, hands shoved deep in her pockets. The tension in her chest hadn’t eased, and the memory of Marksman’s inked back, the way the tattoos shifted with every graceful movement, looped in her mind like a curse. Like she was the primary ghost in Vi's mind, haunting her at every empty corner, making it impossible not to succumb.
The next night, Vi found her again.
Or maybe Marksman found her.
She’d spent the evening with Powder, something she didn’t do nearly enough. Powder had been in one of her lighter moods, rambling about some new gadget she was working on while Vi listened with a faint smile, pretending she wasn’t watching every shadow outside the window.
It wasn’t often she felt like her sister was safe—not in Zaun, not in this world. Leaving her for the night had been harder than usual, her instincts screaming at her to stay. But Powder had shooed her out with a teasing comment about being “too motherly,” and Vi had reluctantly slipped into the streets.
Not on patrol, she just walked with her jacket slung over her shoulders, boots scuffing against the uneven pavement. She’d barely made it a few blocks before her thoughts betrayed her.
The pit. Marksman. That grin. That heat in her gaze.
It played on a loop, a distraction she didn’t want to admit had taken root.
When she cut through a dark alley and spotted Marksman leaning against a crumbling wall, her collar high and her stance casual, Vi’s stomach dropped.
Marksman looked up, her grin unfurling slowly, wide enough to show the gap in her teeth.
“Evening, Officer,” she drawled, her voice low and teasing, wrapping around Vi like smoke. Her gaze flicked over Vi’s outfit—civilian clothes, rough and practical—and her smirk deepened. “Off duty, huh? Didn’t recognize you without the blues.”
Vi stopped in her tracks, her jaw tightening.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped, ignoring the heat creeping up her neck at Marksman’s words.
Marksman pushed off the wall, stepping into the faint glow of a streetlamp. The light caught on the bruises shadowing her cheek and the faint streaks of paint she hadn’t fully scrubbed off. Her split lip was healing, but smiling at Vi like that made it somehow look worse. Or better.
Vi hated herself for thinking it was the latter.
“What’s the matter?” Marksman asked, tilting her head with mock innocence. “You seem tense.”
“Tense?” Vi barked a laugh, folding her arms to stop her hands from twitching. “Maybe because I keep running into a cocky little shit who thinks she’s untouchable.”
Marksman stepped closer, deliberate and slow, the air between them thickening with every inch she closed. “Untouchable?” she echoed, her voice a soft taunt. “You could, if you want it so badly.”
Vi’s eyes dropped involuntarily as Marksman pulled her jacket open just enough to expose what was underneath. The movement was casual, careless, displaying breasts so full that it seemed like they wanted to spill out of the bandages wrapped tight around her chest.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Vi snapped, but her voice faltered, betraying her. She took a step back, hitting the edge of the alley wall, and cursed under her breath.
Marksman followed, her grin widening. She didn’t touch her but stood close enough that Vi could feel the heat radiating off her skin, her scent a mix of sweat, faint alcohol, and something distinctly her.
“You’re a terrible liar… Violet,” Marksman said softly, her gaze dropping to Vi’s lips for just a fraction of a second. “But that’s okay. I like that about you.”
Vi’s heart slammed against her ribs, a mix of frustration and something else she couldn’t name. She hated how good Marksman was at this, at getting under her skin and twisting the knife.
“You know I should arrest you,” Vi said, her voice low, rough. It was supposed to be a threat, but it sounded more like a plea, even to her own ears. “This is extremely inappropriate.”
Marksman’s laugh was light, almost melodic, and infuriatingly smug. She leaned in just enough that Vi could feel her breath against her jaw.
“Then cuff me, Officer,” she whispered, holding out her hands mockingly, palms up. “Drag me in. Make me your problem.”
The words flooded Vi’s mind with images she shouldn’t be thinking, of Marksman pinned against a wall, those sharp eyes finally softening under her touch, that smirk wiped clean by—
She pushed off the wall, putting distance between them before she did something stupid.
“You’re a goddamn headache,” she growled, turning her back on Marksman and striding toward the street.
Marksman’s laugh followed her. “What’s the matter, Officer? Afraid I’ll grow on you?”
Every part of her screamed to turn around, to take Marksman up on her taunts, to wipe that smug grin off her face with her lips or her fists—she wasn’t sure which—but she kept walking.
Arrest her or fuck her.
That question was completely different from the previous one, but somehow it already felt less like a choice and more like an inevitability.
The pit was alive tonight.
The crowd was louder, rowdier, the air thick with the stink of sweat and alcohol.
Caitlyn Kiramman—no, Marksman—stood in the center of it all, chest heaving, her fists coated in blood, some of it hers, most of it not. Her latest opponent lay sprawled on the ground, groaning, as the cheers roared around her.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing blood across her cheek, and raised her arms in victory. The adrenaline coursed through her veins, hotter and sharper than anything else, making her feel invincible.
As the crowd’s roars began to fade, she felt a weight that was starting to become all too familiar to her. She turned her head and found gray-blue eyes cutting through the chaos like a blade.
Violet stood at the edge of the crowd, her uniform absent, her presence anything but. Caitlyn’s lips curled into a slow, predatory grin as that all but confirmed all of her suspicions about being more of a constant thought than the enforcer would like to admit.
When Caitlyn stepped out of the pit that night after trying—and failing—to wash all the blood and paint away from her body over a sink, and the weight of a gaze pressed on her back, she didn’t have to turn to know who it was anymore.
“You’re back,” Caitlyn called out. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show up to my fights anymore.”
Boots scuffed against the damp alley floor. Caitlyn turned her head slightly, enough to catch Vi’s shadow before the woman stepped into the faint light. No enforcer jacket tonight—just Vi, though she still carried her handcuffs, her stance as solid as ever.
“I didn’t come here to watch you.” Vi’s voice was low, clipped, but Caitlyn didn’t miss the flicker of something else in her tone. Concern? Frustration? Maybe both.
“Of course not,” Caitlyn murmured, tilting her head as her eyes swept over Vi like a challenge. “You just happened to be here. Watching.” Vi’s jaw tightened, but Caitlyn wasn’t done. “Let me guess—you’re chasing some grand conspiracy that’s brought you down to the pits. Illegal tech? Smuggling? Or maybe you’re just here because you missed me.”
Vi sighed, exasperated but unable to hide the flicker of amusement in her eyes. “This isn’t a game, Marksman. There’s been an uptick in weapon deals coming out of this area. Someone’s pushing high-grade gear, and I need to know if you’ve seen anything.”
“Me?” Caitlyn touched a hand to her chest, feigning offense. “Vi, I’m just a simple fighter trying to make a name for myself. Do I look like I’d get tangled up in smuggling rings?”
“Yeah, actually,” Vi shot back, her tone dry. “You look exactly like the kind of person who knows what’s happening around here. So start talking.”
Caitlyn stepped closer, her grin sharpening. “You know, you could try a little finesse. A ‘please’ might go a long way.”
Vi crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Please.”
It was the way she said it—deadpan, utterly unamused—that made Caitlyn laugh.
“See? That wasn’t so hard. But I hate to break it to you, Officer—I don’t have any juicy leads for you—just the usual underground antics. You know how it is down here. Everyone’s got a hustle.”
Caitlyn bit the inside of her lip, thinking back to when she’d worn her own kind of badge, determined to bring justice to Zaun from within. But she’d learned the hard way that justice was a fragile, hollow thing when wielded by one person against an entire system. She’d stayed in Zaun, thinking she could fix it from the ground up, but that hope had been stripped away like layers of paint.
“Don’t play dumb with me, Marksman.” Vi’s voice cut through her thoughts. “If you know something—anything—you’d better spill it.”
Caitlyn studied her, noting the tension in Vi’s posture, the determination in her gaze. She recognized the spark in her, that belief that one person could shoulder the weight of Zaun’s chaos and make a difference. Caitlyn had carried that same spark once, and it had burned her down to ash.
“Relax, Vi. I’m not your enemy,” Caitlyn scoffed, leaning in just enough to make Vi’s breath hitch. “Though I do enjoy the way you look at me when you think I am.”
“Stop it,” Vi said, though her voice lacked its usual edge. “People are getting hurt. Zaun doesn’t need more chaos.”
Caitlyn’s smirk softened.
It wasn’t that she didn’t care. It was that caring had once consumed her, and what had it changed? Paying attention to every deal, every shady figure slipping through the streets, every bruised fighter facing her in the pit, every obscene sum wagered on her name—it would only drive her mad.
“I’m not blind to what goes on here, Vi,” Caitlyn said, her voice quieter, more restrained. “But knowing about it and being part of it are two very different things. I pick my battles.”
Vi held her gaze, searching for any cracks in her facade, but Caitlyn’s expression was unreadable—deliberately so.
“I’ll keep my ears open for you, though.” She stepped back, giving Vi some space, and shrugged nonchalantly. “If I hear anything interesting, you’ll be the first to know.”
Vi frowned, clearly skeptical. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I like the sound of your voice when you’re irritated.” Caitlyn’s grin returned, full of mischief. “Now, are we done with the interrogation, or are you going to cuff me and drag me in?”
Vi’s cheeks flushed, a rare crack in her composure.
“You’re gonna get yourself killed one of these nights.”
Caitlyn laughed. “And you’ll be there to stop it, won’t you?” She took a slow step forward again, closing the space between them inch by inch. “What is it, Vi? Am I your responsibility now? Or is there something else keeping you glued to my every move?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Vi muttered, but her voice faltered, just enough for Caitlyn to catch it.
“Oh, I think I do,” Caitlyn said, her voice softening as she took another step. She was close now, too close, her breath ghosting over Vi’s cheek as her eyes searched the enforcer’s face. “You don’t have to follow me. You could ask these questions to literally anyone else. So why don’t you?”
Vi didn’t answer, but her hands flexed at her sides, and her gaze dropped for the briefest second—to Caitlyn’s mouth, her collarbone, the faint sheen of sweat clinging to her skin.
“Still nothing?” Caitlyn’s voice was barely above a whisper, her grin sharpening as she tilted her head. “I think I’ve got you figured out, Vi. You like this. Watching me. Waiting for an excuse to get me in cuffs. Tell me—does it drive you crazy? Knowing you’ll never have the guts to take what you really want?”
Vi’s composure snapped like a thread pulled too tight. She stepped forward, hand shooting up to wrap around Caitlyn’s neck, pushing her against a wall, her eyes blazing with something uncontrollable.
The cold brick behind Caitlyn contrasted sharply with the heat of Vi’s body pressing into her, and she couldn’t help the breathless laugh that escaped her lips.
“You think this is a joke?” Vi growled, her voice thick with restrained anger, or maybe something else entirely.
“No,” Caitlyn licked her lips, eyes falling to Vi’s scarred one’s for a second as her grin melted into something more dangerous. “But you’re about to make it one.”
The hand around Caitlyn’s neck tightened just enough to draw a gasp from her lips. The vulnerability of it—the strength, the control—set her blood alight. Before she could push further, Vi surged forward, and their mouths collided in a bruising, furious kiss.
Caitlyn moaned into it, the sound low and throaty as the sharp edge of Vi’s teeth scraped her lower lip, desperate, as if Vi were trying to punish her and devour her all at once. She kissed back with equal fervor, her fingers tangling into Vi’s messy pink hair, tugging just enough to elicit a hum that rumbled against her lips.
Vi’s weight pinned her in place, her hand still firm on Caitlyn’s neck, the other gripping her hip. Caitlyn reveled in the raw power in Vi’s touch and the shivering ache where Vi’s fingers dug into her skin.
“You’re angry,” Caitlyn murmured against Vi’s lips, her tone taunting even as her chest heaved. “I like you angry.”
“Shut up,” Vi panted, but the way her voice hitched and the way the grip of both her hands tightened told Caitlyn all she needed to know.
Caitlyn chuckled and pressed closer against the weight of Vi’s hand on her neck, her lips brushing against Vi’s cheek, trying to get closer to her ear.
“You’re predictable, you know that?” Caitlyn’s tongue darted out to lick at the corner of the enforcer’s mouth, humming as the taste of her skin filled her senses. “But I’ll admit, I didn’t think you’d actually—”
The hand in Caitlyn’s neck squeezed, breaking her words into a gasp.
Vi swallowed deeply, her breaths ragged, and whispered, “You—”
“Call me Caitlyn.” Caitlyn’s voice was a husky whisper.
Vi froze for a second, her gray-blue eyes wide and burning.
“Caitlyn.”
The sound of her name on Vi’s lips sent an unexpected thrill through her. It had been a while since she’d heard it out loud, especially in a sound so raw and hungry. It had never sounded like that before, not on anyone’s lips.
And Gods, she wanted to hear it again.
She barely registered her own actions when her hands tangled in Vi’s pink hair and pulled her in for yet another kiss. This time, Caitlyn kissed her like she wanted to claim her, like she wanted Vi to forget anything existed outside of this moment.
Her nails raked down Vi’s shoulders over the thin fabric of her shirt, her fingers finding the hard muscle underneath.
Gods, she was so solid, so strong.
Caitlyn’s heart thundered against her ribs as her hands roamed, sliding from Vi’s shoulders to her back, pulling her impossibly closer. Every inch of her body burned with the heat of Vi’s, and she wanted—no, needed—to feel more of her skin and those muscles flexing under her touch.
Caitlyn could barely breathe, but she didn’t care.
It wasn’t just the hand around her neck or the way Vi’s free hand was tracing her waist inside her open jacket, but the unpolished hunger this enforcer, Vi, was unleashing. For her.
She grinned into the kiss, even as Vi bit down on her lower lip, her teeth sharp and punishing. The sting only made her blood race faster, her heart pounding against her ribs like it wanted to escape, but what escaped instead was a moan.
The sound was muffled but unmistakable, and Vi groaned in response, fingers tightening around Caitlyn’s neck and tilting her head roughly.
“Do you have somewhere we could go?” Vi whispered against her lips, blue-gray eyes blown so wide in the dim light that Caitlyn could barely see their color anymore.