The Badge Strikes Back

The first sign was the shift in the air.

Y/N had just passed through a quieter street in Piltover—the kind with neatly paved tiles and glass shopfronts that watched passersby like eyes. The crowd had thinned behind her, and the evening sunlight painted everything gold.

Then came that voice.

"Back from the underworld already?"

Y/N froze.

That voice didn't belong here. It shouldn't exist in the world she was trying to rebuild.

Slowly, she turned.

Caitlyn Kiramman stood at the far end of the block, half-silhouetted by the light, hands behind her. Not a hair out of place. Not a hint of shame.

Just that smirk.

That tiny, knowing smirk that undid everything Y/N had been trying to forget.

"Miss me?"

Y/N's chest tightened. The thrum of her heart pulsed in her ears. And then—

She bolted.

Caitlyn didn't shout. Didn't draw a weapon. She simply walked, boots clicking in measured steps.

Y/N darted down a side alley, wind whipping past her face. Turned a corner. Jumped a stairwell railing. Skidded through a garden path. Every breath a battle. Every footfall a prayer.

The sounds of the city warped around her—clanking trolleys, children's laughter, bystanders yelling in confusion as she dashed past. Faces blurred. Everything blurred.

And still, somewhere behind—she could feel Caitlyn's gaze.

Unhurried.

Inevitable.

She burst onto a busy street, weaving through vendors and startled citizens. A man grabbed her shoulder, recognizing her face—"Hey, aren't you—?"—but she ripped free without a word, heart in her throat.

She couldn't stop. Not here. Not anywhere in Piltover.

Not while Caitlyn was walking after her like she had all the time in the world.

A glimpse over her shoulder—

Nothing.

But she could still feel the weight of someone watching her. A predator waiting for the right time to strike.

Y/N ducked into an underpass, lungs burning. A train roared overhead. Her legs were jelly. Her throat tasted blood. But she kept going.

She couldn't stop.

Not when she felt danger looming closer than ever before.

By the time Y/N slipped into the narrow alleys, Caitlyn had already taken position atop a nearby spire, rifle in hand, her eye cool behind the scope, glinting faintly in the dying light.

Piltover pulsed below—bright and oblivious. But through Caitlyn's eye, the world narrowed to one fragile thread, fleeing through the alleys.

Y/N.

She tracked her through narrow alleyways and flickering lamplight, watching the hurried movements of a girl trapped by ghosts no one else could see. Her finger rested lightly near the trigger—not to fire. That would end the game too soon.

Instead, she watched.

The way Y/N's shoulders tensed. The way her head whipped around at every sound. How her legs faltered just slightly when she thought she'd lost her pursuer.

Caitlyn smiled to herself.

There was something delicate about her—the way she moved with desperation and instinct, not grace. An untrained animal, raw and real, far more interesting than any criminal she'd ever hunted.

And yet, it wasn't the chase that excited Caitlyn anymore.

It was her.

She adjusted the scope and zoomed in.

Y/N had stopped, one hand pressed against a wall, chest heaving as she caught her breath. A tear clung just beneath her eye.

Through the scope, Caitlyn watched—silent, steady.

Not bad, she thought. But tired already?

She adjusted her grip on the rifle, eyes sharp, calm. The anger was there, coiled low and tight in her chest, but she wore it like armor, not chains.

"You really thought a report would save you?" she murmured, voice level, almost amused. "Cute."

She tracked the line of Y/N's spine through the scope, her gaze precise, deliberate.

The rifle wasn't meant to shoot. Not yet.

Just to follow.

To own the hunt.

Y/N moved again—a staggered step forward—and Caitlyn's eyes lit with something cool and dangerous. Not lust. Not affection.

Control.

"This is my city," she whispered. "You just don't know how deep you're in."

Her finger brushed the trigger—not to pull, but to remind herself who was in charge.

She didn't need to run. She didn't need to rage.

She only needed time. And the right angle.

"Run," she said, eyes gleaming. "I'll catch you when it matters."

And she moved.

Not frantic. Not furious.

Just focused.

Like a predator who never questioned whether she'd catch her prey—only when.

Caitlyn's finger slipped off the trigger guard. Her eye lingered one final second through the scope, drinking in the sight of Y/N—worn down, breathless, trembling against the wall like a cornered fox still foolish enough to think she had a way out.

She stood.

The rifle dropped from her shoulder and was holstered against her back with the click of a hidden latch. Her gaze never left the alley below, but her body moved with the grace of certainty, fluid and unhurried.

There was no urgency. No need for theatrics.

She knew the paths Y/N would take.

She knew how fear made people move.

And more importantly—she knew where to cut them off.

Caitlyn stepped away from the edge of the spire, boots silent on the stone as she descended into the city like a blade sliding into a sheath. The wind caught her coat as she leapt from rooftop to rooftop, scaling ledges with practiced ease, letting gravity and instinct do the work.

A shortcut through a stairwell. A pivot across scaffoldings. She moved through Piltover's bones like she was part of them.

The hunt was no longer a game of distance.

Now, it was about proximity.

Y/N didn't know it yet—but she was no longer being watched.

She was being approached.

Caitlyn rounded the final ledge, boots touching down softly on the rooftop just above where Y/N had vanished.

A flick of her wrist. A subtle hum from the weapon on her back—powered, but idle.

She crouched at the edge, peering down into the alleyway where shadows stretched like claws.

She dropped soundlessly into the alley, knees bending to absorb the fall, shadows wrapping around her like a second skin.

Y/N was close.

Caitlyn could hear her—staggered steps, breath like static in the air, the soft drag of a sleeve across stone as she slowed down, her back hitting the wall.

This was it.

Caitlyn moved, each footstep a deliberate whisper. She slipped around a rusted pipe, one hand brushing the grip of her rifle—not to aim. Just to feel it. To remind herself she was in control.

She stepped forward.

And then—

A shape darted across the far end of the alley.

Caitlyn halted mid-stride, breath catching. Blue braids caught in the light. A shadow that moved with chaotic rhythm.

Jinx.

She strolled in like she owned the place, something small swinging from her fingers—a cracked, brightly painted toy. One of those wind-up things she tinkered with in the dark, grinning while it whirred and sputtered. It looked old. Meaningless.

But when Caitlyn's eyes flicked down, she caught the makeshift decal slapped across its chest: a sloppy parody of the Buy Me a Coffee posters scattered across Piltover, except the mug had been drawn like a bomb, steam curling into skulls, and someone—Jinx, obviously—had scribbled devil horns on the figure beside it. Hers.

Caitlyn's jaw tensed. Mockery, down to the last stroke. Even her arrest poster wasn't safe.

Which made it obvious.

Just an excuse.

Jinx wasn't here for the toy.

Y/N saw her too—and froze.

Her whole body tensed, like a cornered animal about to sprint again.

"Relax," Jinx called out, holding the toy up with an exaggerated shrug. "You left this behind. Figured you might miss it or… maybe I just missed you."

Y/N blinked. For a heartbeat, her eyes were wide with fear.

Then they softened.

Her shoulders dropped. The breath she'd been holding came loose in a shaky exhale.

And without another word—she ran forward, straight into Jinx's arms.

Jinx nearly stumbled from the impact. "Whoa—okay," she muttered, half-laughing, arms coming around her.

Y/N buried her face in Jinx's shoulder, clinging tightly, as if grounding herself in a world that kept slipping out of reach.

Caitlyn watched all of it from the dark.

Every instinct screamed at her to move. To act. But she didn't.

Her fingers twitched at her side.

That hug—it wasn't just relief. It was trust. Comfort. Something she didn't like seeing in someone else's arms.

Caitlyn pressed herself against the wall, rifle tucked close, breath held as she watched.

Y/N had run to Jinx the moment she recognized her—no hesitation, no fear. Her arms wrapped tightly around the smaller girl, like she needed to anchor herself to something real. Something safe.

Caitlyn's jaw clenched. Air hissed quietly from her nose. She shifted back a step, deeper into the shadows, away from the light that touched them.

She'd come so close.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the embrace. On the way Y/N's fingers curled into Jinx's coat. The way her shoulders trembled—not from exhaustion, but from the release of tension.

Caitlyn bit her lip, just once. Hard enough to feel it.

Then let it go.

A slow, silent sigh slipped out as she lowered her gaze, her posture easing from hunter to something quieter. Less certain.

She turned without a sound.

Boots barely kissed the stone as she walked away, melting back into the alleyways like a shadow never meant to be seen.

Behind her, Jinx held Y/N close—comforting her with a murmured joke, a nudge of her nose against Y/N's temple.

Then her eyes lifted.

And locked on the mouth of the alley Caitlyn had just slipped through.

She said nothing. Didn't move.

Just smirked.

Like she knew.