Stained Badge

This was a first.

Caitlyn Kiramman had never been late to the precinct. Not once. But today, the sun had risen without her. The city had stirred to life without her steady footsteps echoing through its streets. And the precinct doors groaned open long after the morning rush had passed.

Her body felt sluggish, like she'd been swimming through fog. There was a dull throb behind her eyes, the kind that came after a restless night or one too many drinks. She didn't remember much of yesterday evening-just vague images, fractured pieces. A hallway. A hand on a wall. Someone's breath. She brushed the thoughts away, chalking it up to exhaustion.

She pulled herself together like she always did. Uniform crisp, boots laced tight, badge pinned to her chest. Yet everything felt heavier this morning. Stiffer. Even the badge seemed to press down on her, a small weight that shouldn't have felt like anything at all.

The precinct was quieter than usual.

As she stepped inside, something shifted. She could feel it immediately.

Not fear. Not deference.

Doubt.

The chatter dulled. Someone at the corner desk fell silent mid-sentence. Another officer glanced at her, then quickly turned away. The receptionist-normally quick with a "Sheriff"-mumbled something that barely resembled a greeting.

Caitlyn offered a curt nod, forcing herself forward. Her heels clicked against the floor like usual, but the rhythm felt off. The air around her felt thick, like walking through water. Every breath seemed louder in the silence.

She passed a cluster of officers near the front desk. They were crowded around something-some report. Their voices hushed, their eyes flicking toward her just long enough to make her chest tighten.

She didn't stop to ask. She didn't want to ask.

Instead, she walked deeper into the building, pretending the silence didn't crawl up her back like a warning.

She sat at her desk, fingers hovering above a blank report. Her mind still hazy, the buzz of low voices beyond her office door filling the space like static. The dull ache behind her eyes sharpened. She rubbed her temple, trying to remember-anything.

Nothing solid came. Just sensation. Heat. Pressure. A voice. A whimper?

Her badge caught the light, a small gleam that pierced the haze.

Then-

BANG.

The door swung open.

Three officers stepped in. Two uniformed. One in plainclothes with a clipboard tucked under his arm. Their faces were tight. Professional. Too professional.

"Caitlyn Kiramman," the plainclothes officer said, voice clipped. "By order of the Piltover Council, you are being placed under investigative detainment."

She blinked. "I-what?"

No time for questions. The two officers stepped forward. Not violently. But with intent. Like she was no longer one of them. Like she was something else now. A problem to be handled.

"What is this?" she snapped, standing up. "What's the meaning of this?"

No one answered. The plainclothes officer simply said, "You'll be briefed once we arrive. Please don't make this harder than it needs to be."

Her hand hovered near her badge. She didn't reach for her weapon-she knew better. But the urge was there. The reflex to assert her authority.

Except she no longer had any.

One of the officers gently gripped her arm. She stiffened.

She didn't resist. She couldn't-not without looking guilty. And more than anything, she needed to understand what was happening.

They moved her through the precinct slowly. Her boots echoed down the hall, but the usual rhythm was gone. There was no camaraderie in the air. No nods. No salutes.

Eyes followed her. Not all. But enough.

She caught glimpses of expressions-some curious, some unreadable. And a few... averted. Guilty, almost.

Something had cracked. And she was the only one who hadn't heard the sound.

And then she saw her.

Just beyond the front desk.

A woman. Civilian. Standing beside another officer, arms folded across her chest. Her jaw was tight. There was something faintly off about her-subtle, but undeniable. A small mark near her cheekbone, like the fading shadow of a bruise. Her clothes were ordinary. Her stance wasn't.

Not afraid. Not defiant.

Resolute.

Caitlyn didn't recognize her.

She was just another citizen. A stranger. A face among thousands.

But something about the woman held her gaze. The way her eyes locked with Caitlyn's-briefly, coldly. As if peering through her, not at her.

Caitlyn's breath caught.

A piece of memory flared-vague and broken. A blurred hallway. The sensation of breath on skin. The sting of alcohol. A voice, trembling. "Please..."

Her throat closed.

She blinked, trying to ground herself. But that look-the stranger's look-wasn't one of fear or anger.

It was worse.

Disappointment.

And something deeper. Like betrayal. From someone who had expected decency, not cruelty.

But Caitlyn didn't know her.

Did she?

No. She couldn't have. That face was unfamiliar. But the shame curling in her gut said otherwise.

As the doors creaked open and light from outside spilled in, the realization hit her like a gut punch.

It was her.

She was the complaint.

The stranger-the ordinary citizen-had taken down the Sheriff of Piltover.

Caitlyn tried to keep her stride steady. Her chin up.

But she felt like she was walking underwater.

She didn't say a word. What could she say?

She didn't remember what had happened.

But the stranger did.

And it had been enough.

Outside, flashbulbs burst. Reporters shouted. The Council's detainment transport stood waiting.

Caitlyn climbed the steps without flinching, but inside, something fractured.

Not from the cameras. Not from the silence.

But from the stranger's eyes.

Because they hadn't looked away with fear.

They had looked away with finality.

And Caitlyn Kiramman knew:

Whatever she had done-it was already too late to undo it.

----

PAUSE.

Are you emotionally devastated? Me too.

Caitlyn's downfall? Tragic. My caffeine levels? Equally tragic.

Buy me a coffee before I rewrite this scene at 3am again:

Find me at Buy Me a Coffee as nerocissist101

(Support your local emotional damage dealer.)

----

The chair beneath Y/N was stiff, the cushion worn thin from years of uneasy conversations. The clock on the wall ticked too loudly, slicing through the silence between her and the officer across the desk. He asked questions in a low, measured tone, typing notes into a report as she answered with careful restraint.

She hadn't slept. Her throat still felt raw from the words she'd forced out hours ago-words she never imagined she'd say, not about someone like her.

Not about the sheriff.

The protector of Piltover.

"I understand this is difficult," the officer said gently, eyes flicking toward the slight discoloration at Y/N's jaw. "But I need you to be as detailed as possible."

She nodded numbly. "I'm trying."

Because she had to. Because someone like Caitlyn Kiramman wasn't supposed to be above consequence. Not even if she wore a badge. Not even if her voice sounded calm, kind. Not even if the world saw her as something good.

The walls around them buzzed with quiet tension. She could feel it in the air, a shift in the building's energy-subtle but undeniable. Boots moved hurriedly down hallways. Doors opened and shut with a little more force than usual.

The officer paused, tilting his head toward the glass window behind her. His brow furrowed.

Then came the sound.

Footsteps. Sharp, deliberate.

A door swung open somewhere behind her.

The officer stood.

Y/N turned.

And the breath caught in her chest.

There she was.

Caitlyn Kiramman. The sheriff.

Her uniform was perfect, posture rigid. But something was off-something in her eyes. They didn't carry the usual sharp, calculating confidence. They looked lost. Dazed. Like she had just woken up from a nightmare she didn't understand.

There were two officers at her sides.

Her arms weren't bound, but she might as well have been.

Y/N's stomach turned. Her hands clenched in her lap.

Then Caitlyn saw her.

And the moment stretched impossibly long.

Y/N didn't speak.

Neither did Caitlyn.

She just looked at her, like she was trying to place her, like something behind her eyes was reaching-struggling-for understanding.

But she didn't need to understand.

She had already done it.

Y/N had spent all morning reliving it in the sterile gray of the interview room. The hallway. The breathless confusion. The way her back had hit the wall. The weight. The voice in her ear-half-command, half-threat, draped in a disguise of authority.

And now here she was. Wearing that same uniform.

The same badge meant to protect people like Y/N.

A betrayal. That's what it was.

Not just the act itself.

But who it came from.

Caitlyn didn't move. Her face didn't change. But something in her gaze flickered-like she knew.

Like she realized.

And still-nothing. No apology. No recognition. No regret.

Just that look. Caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief. It made Y/N feel small, like her pain wasn't real until Caitlyn decided it was.

So she looked away.

Because she couldn't hold that gaze any longer.

Because if she did, she'd scream.

The two officers resumed walking, guiding Caitlyn past the desk, past Y/N, and toward the doors at the front of the precinct.

Y/N stayed in her seat.

But something inside her shifted.

Not satisfaction. Not justice.

Just the cold weight of reality settling into place.

The sheriff of Piltover had been arrested. Because of her words. Because of what happened. Because someone had finally listened.

And yet-none of it felt like victory.

It felt like the day her faith died.

Because if you couldn't trust the person meant to protect you... who was left?