(Marvel, DC, images, manhuas, and every anime that will be mentioned and used in this story are not mine. They all belong to their respective owners. The main character "Karito/Adriel Josue Valdez" and the story are mine)
When Adriel stepped through the portal, he expected—at most—a small cluster. Maybe Peter and Ace, maybe Artoria, a handful of champs easing into the idea of fun again.
Instead, he walked into a scene that looked like someone had ripped a page out of a different life and stapled it into Ixtal.
Half the surviving champions were already there.
For a second he just... paused. Not because it was wrong—because it was right in a way that felt unfamiliar. After a year of running, hiding, watching the world get carved up by things they couldn't fight... laughter didn't feel like something you were allowed to hear. It felt like a luxury.
And yet here they were, taking it back anyway.
Good, he thought. Let them have it. Let them breathe.
The pool area had been transformed into a full-on event. Smoothies and cut fruit passed around like it was a holiday. Someone—multiple someones—were posted up near the grill, turning ribs and steaks with the kind of focus usually reserved for war councils. A kiosk line was handing out towels, sunscreen, plates, utensils... like Qiyana had decided, If you people are going to relax, you're going to do it correctly.
Of course she went all out.
Adriel's eyes swept the crowd slowly—measuring, cataloging, half-habit and half-instinct. His mind wanted to keep counting exits and threats even here, even now, like his body hadn't gotten the memo that this was allowed.
Then he spotted Artoria.
She wore a white halter bikini edged in deep sapphire blue, the fabric smooth and clean against her skin. Blue straps crossed neatly over her upper chest before fastening around her neck, giving the simple top a more refined, eye-catching shape. Matching bottoms sat low on her hips, each side adorned with large blue bows whose ribbon tails draped down her thighs. The design was simple at first glance, but the contrast of stark white and vivid blue made it feel graceful, playful, and carefully styled.
Adriel didn't even try to pretend he didn't notice.
She looked... yeah. Gorgeous. Like it was unfair.
But he didn't move toward her.
Because he also noticed Ace—how his attention always found her lately, even when he tried to play it cool. Adriel wasn't about to be that guy. Not with his own people. Not with his own team.
So he angled his path away on instinct, keeping out of her peripheral vision like a decent human being, and let Ace handle whatever slow-burn situation he was building with her.
Before Adriel could get much farther, a shadow blocked his path.
Darius.
That alone would've been enough to put most people on edge. Even now, even in a pool setting, Darius had that gravity—like if he decided to start a war, the universe would just... politely make room.
But he wasn't radiating menace.
He was... smiling.
And that was how Adriel knew the world was healing in ways that didn't make sense yet.
Darius approached with a beer in hand—cold bottle, condensation running down his fingers.
Adriel's gaze landed on the label.
Medalla Light.
He almost flinched.
Of all the things Qiyana could've pulled from his "home dimension," she pulled that?
Adriel could still taste it in his memory—watery, thin, like someone whispered "beer" into a bottle and called it a day.
Darius, however, looked fully content with his life choices.
"Guardian." Darius greeted him like they weren't from different worlds and weren't supposed to exist in the same sentence. He made it sound like a title of respect instead of worship, and Adriel appreciated that more than he'd ever admit out loud.
"Darius," Adriel returned, casual. "You look... weirdly normal right now."
Darius let out a short laugh that didn't sound like a threat for once. "I've been told I can be... difficult."
"That's one word," Adriel muttered.
Darius stepped in closer, slung an arm around Adriel's shoulders like they were old comrades instead of survivors forced into the same last safe haven. The gesture was heavy—Darius didn't do anything lightly.
He raised the Medalla bottle slightly. "This is... surprisingly good."
Adriel's face twitched before he could stop it. "I mean... if you like drinking sadness, sure."
Darius blinked, then barked out a laugh again. "It is not sadness. It is—"
"It is," Adriel cut in, deadpan.
And that should've been the end of it. A small joke, a small moment.
But Darius's grip tightened a fraction. His voice lowered.
"...I did not think we would live," he admitted, and just like that the humor evaporated. "I did not think anyone would come. Not after... everything."
Adriel didn't respond right away. He let Darius talk. Let him get it out. Because he recognized that tone too well—the part of someone that still couldn't believe the nightmare ended, even temporarily.
Darius kept going, words rough around the edges, like he hated how honest he sounded.
"You saved this world," Darius said. "Not just Noxus. Not just Ixtal. You... you pulled people out of the dark when we were already buried. I don't—" His jaw worked like the sentence was physically hard to swallow. "I don't have a way to repay that."
Adriel's first instinct was to shut it down—fast. He didn't want gratitude. He didn't want people looking at him like he was the reason their hearts were still beating.
But Darius wasn't saying it like worship.
He was saying it like a man who had watched his entire ideology crumble under a force he couldn't even challenge—and had been forced to learn humility the hard way.
Adriel exhaled slowly, keeping his tone steady. "You don't repay it. You live. That's the whole point."
Darius stared at him for a long second like he was trying to decide whether to argue.
Then he nodded once, sharp. "Fair."
His eyes looked wet for a half-second—so brief Adriel almost convinced himself he imagined it.
Then another champion called out from nearby, and Darius's attention snapped toward them instinctively.
Darius lifted the bottle again. "Enjoy your... pool."
"Yeah," Adriel said. "Try not to start a coup over the grill."
Darius gave him a look that almost—almost—felt offended.
Then he walked off, pulled into a different conversation like the moment hadn't cracked him open at all.
Adriel stood there for a beat, then let out a quiet breath of relief.
He was happy for them. Truly.
But gods, he wasn't built for emotional ambushes before noon.
He continued along the pool's edge, still not fully committing to the idea of getting in. His eyes roamed—half watchful, half absorbing the sight like he was afraid it would disappear if he blinked too long.
Zoe was off in her own universe, naturally—laughing as she darted around Wolf, who lunged after her with all the enthusiasm of a creature who had been bored for a year straight. Lamb stood nearby, calm and composed, while Soraka tried to keep the volleyball game from turning into complete chaos.
Zoe spiked the ball too hard. It flew off-course.
Wolf pounced after it like it was prey.
Soraka squeaked, half-laughing. "Zoe—! That's not— that's not how you—"
"It's fine!" Zoe chirped, already running after it. "It's called adding spice!"
Lamb's voice carried softly, almost resigned. "That is not what spice means."
Adriel's gaze drifted farther—Miss Fortune talking animatedly with Kayle and Lux, Sivir leaning back like she owned the entire pool deck, Katarina watching everything with that quiet assassin's awareness that never fully shut off.
Swain sat like he was still a general even in swimwear energy, Diana and Leona occupying the same space in a way that felt like gravity had decided to be romantic, and Taric—Taric looked like he belonged in a commercial for "surviving trauma with great hair."
Then Adriel blinked, because—
Pantheon.
Pantheon had a kiosk.
Pantheon was—no exaggeration—selling baked goods.
Adriel did a double take so hard his neck almost cracked.
Pantheon stood behind the setup like he was on duty, except the duty was pastries. He had trays laid out, some kind of frosting situation happening, and the entire thing looked weirdly... legit.
Adriel stared for a second too long.
Pantheon caught him looking and lifted his chin slightly like, Yes. I know. I am aware of the meme. I have accepted my fate.
Adriel almost laughed, but he swallowed it, because his brain immediately went: Of course this happened.
Not far from there, Lillia stood with a small group, actually talking—actually blending in. It surprised Adriel more than he expected. She'd only been awake a short time and already she wasn't hiding in a corner. That meant something.
Aphelios, meanwhile, lingered slightly apart. Quiet. Observant. Alone in the way that wasn't lonely, exactly—more like he didn't know what to do with peace yet.
And then—
Ace and Peter approached Artoria.
Adriel slowed without meaning to.
Artoria looked... shy. Which was ridiculous, because she was Artoria Pendragon and could probably stare down a god without flinching.
But the swimsuit had her a little tense, shoulders set in that "I am not used to being perceived like this" posture.
Ace looked like he was trying to act normal and failing.
Peter looked like he was having the time of his life watching Ace struggle.
And from the side—Sarah Fortune.
Sarah was giggling into her drink like she was watching a show she'd been waiting a year to binge.
Adriel caught it instantly.
She's shipping, he realized, and it was so obvious it almost hurt.
Like she was sitting there thinking, Yes. Yes. Go. Do it. Say something. Embarrass yourselves. I'm invested now.
Before Adriel could keep lingering in the background like a creep, Peter's spider-sense betrayed him.
Peter's head snapped toward Adriel immediately.
Then he waved—big, obvious, like "Yo, we see you, stop hiding."
Adriel's anonymity died on the spot.
So much for being invisible.
He sighed like a man accepting his fate and walked over.
Adriel returned the wave and slid right into it, seamless. "So... where's my piña colada?"
Peter snorted. "Since when do you drink piña coladas?"
Adriel shrugged. "Since five seconds ago. I'm trying new things."
Ace's mouth twitched. "He's lying."
Adriel's mouth twitched. He didn't deny it. He just looked past Peter's shoulder at the scene like he'd walked into a completely different chapter than the one he'd expected.
This wasn't "a quick dip."
This was a party.
He let the teasing drop and nodded toward the chaos—smoothies in hand, fruit trays getting demolished, ribs and steak smoking on a grill station like someone decided war trauma deserved seasoning. Towels folded like the staff had trained for this. A kiosk line. A second kiosk line. Someone had even figured out how to keep ice from melting too fast in Ixtal heat without turning the whole place into a frost spell.
Adriel exhaled, half amused, half impressed. "Y'all wasted absolutely no time making this a...," he paused, eyes tracking the crowd, "...party."
Ace shrugged beside Peter like it was obvious. "Last day."
Adriel's brow lifted.
Ace didn't elaborate. He didn't have to. His tone stayed light, but the meaning sat underneath it like a weight. Even if everyone else didn't know what tomorrow was, the four of them did. Might as well squeeze something good out of the hours they had left.
Adriel nodded once. "Fair."
He flicked his gaze down to their hands and immediately clocked the drinks.
Peter had a margarita—salt rim, too fancy to be accidental. Ace had a mojito like he'd decided he was going to become a cocktail guy just to prove a point.
Adriel squinted at Ace's cup like it offended him personally. "Okay. So you can get creative, but Darius is over there drinking Medalla Light like it's the peak of civilization?"
Ace's eyes went innocent. "I didn't give him the beer."
"I know." Adriel grimaced anyway. "Still hurts me spiritually."
Peter made a "nope" motion with both hands, palms out, grinning. "Don't start. You're the one who always says you don't even like drinking."
Adriel blinked—like the comment landed somewhere deeper than it should've.
For a second, he looked genuinely caught. Like the words reached back and touched an older version of him.
Then he huffed, almost annoyed at himself. "Yeah. I don't."
Artoria, who'd been quietly watching the exchange with the patience of someone used to dealing with idiots, let out a small sigh that was one hair away from a facepalm.
Adriel glanced at her and softened his voice, a fraction. "Also my system purges anything it flags as poison. Alcohol counts."
Peter gave him a look. "That's... still the lamest superpower drawback."
"It's not a drawback," Adriel muttered. "It's just... boring."
Ace took a slow sip of his mojito like he was doing it for Adriel's emotional health. "Sucks to suck."
Adriel's eyes cut to him. "Don't get brave."
Then he noticed Artoria's hands.
No drink.
No fancy glass.
No wine.
No "dignified knight beverage."
She was just... scanning the kiosks with an intensity that told him everything.
Adriel leaned slightly toward her. "What's the plan, Saber?"
Artoria didn't even pretend. "I'm going to try whatever that kiosk is selling."
Adriel's lips curved. "Of course you are."
Artoria's head snapped toward him. "Do not start."
"You're a glutton," Adriel said, plainly, like he was stating a scientific fact.
Artoria pouted. It was quick—defensive, offended, adorable in the way she clearly hated being.
Adriel doubled down immediately. "Look at you. Already plotting like it's a tactical operation. 'Objective: snacks.'"
"I eat like a normal person," she snapped.
Peter's eyes glittered with trouble. "That's a lie."
Ace caught a stray look and frowned. "What the fuck did I do?"
Adriel didn't even hesitate. "Exist."
Ace stared at him like he'd just been hit with betrayal. "That's crazy."
Adriel spread his hands innocently. "I'm just saying. Y'all are built different."
Artoria's pout deepened, but she didn't look away from the kiosks, like the food might teleport if she blinked.
Adriel was about to keep poking—because it was easy, because it was normal, because it was safe—when a familiar voice cut in from the side.
"Wow," Sarah Fortune said, strolling up like she owned the deck. "Look who finally decided to show up."
Adriel turned and greeted her with a nod that was warmer than his words. "Morning."
Sarah's face was bright—sunblock still glossy on her cheekbones, confidence like armor, but the kind you wore because you liked it. She leaned slightly toward him and pouted in the most obviously fake way possible.
"You got in the way of my fun," she accused.
Adriel snorted. "My bad."
The apology came with a grin that made it clear it wasn't an apology at all.
Sarah tilted her head, eyes sliding past him toward Ace and Artoria like she was watching a live show. "I had a whole vibe going."
Artoria blinked, confused. "What—"
Ace looked like he was trying not to combust on the spot.
Peter, immediately understanding what was happening, opened his mouth—
Ace's fist flared.
"Don't," Ace warned, already moving.
Peter's eyes gleamed. "What, you're gonna hit me?"
Ace lunged.
Peter ran.
Ace chased him around the pool deck with a flaming fist and a face that was absolutely, violently flushed. "GET BACK HERE!"
Kayle, who had been walking back toward them with drinks, sidestepped just in time, irritation flashing across her eyes. She looked ready to scold them in a single sentence.
Then she realized it would do nothing.
She exhaled through her nose and kept walking like she was already tired.
Lux was at her side, cheerful, bright, holding herself like she'd finally remembered what it felt like to be young.
Kayle handed her a drink and kept the other for herself.
Sarah's attention snapped to it immediately. "Ooo. What's that?"
Kayle eyed her cup like she still wasn't convinced it was real. "They called it a Spritz."
Sarah blinked. "That's—actually kind of cute."
Kayle lifted her own glass. "Gimlet."
Sarah's smile spread. "Okay, Miss Serious is drinking. I'm proud."
Kayle shot her a look that could've been a warning, but it softened at the edges before it could fully sharpen. "Don't make it weird."
Sarah laughed like she couldn't help it. "You're in a pool party. It's already weird."
Kayle's gaze drifted across the deck, over the survivors—people laughing like they hadn't spent a year surviving nightmares. Like they hadn't watched their homes fall. Like they hadn't learned what helplessness tasted like.
Then Kayle muttered, quiet enough that only the people near her would catch it, "I didn't think I'd... ever do something like this."
Sarah's grin turned gentle. "That's the point."
Adriel nodded once, agreeing without making it a whole speech. "She needs it. You all do."
Kayle's mouth opened like she was about to drag the conversation somewhere heavier—toward war, toward the thing hanging over them—
Adriel cut it off immediately with a simple, firm gesture. Two fingers lifted like a warning.
"No," he said, not harsh, but final. "Not today."
Kayle's eyes narrowed, stubbornness rising.
Adriel leaned in a fraction, voice low. "That's my problem. Not yours."
Kayle held his stare, and for a second it looked like she might argue anyway—
Then she exhaled and looked away, resigned. But the gratitude stayed, sitting behind her eyes.
"...Fine," she said, but the gratitude was still there, hiding under her seriousness. "At least tell those two idiots..." she nodded at Ace and Peter, still causing problems, "...thanks."
Not just for the pool party. For Demacia. For Lux. For everything that didn't have a name.
Adriel reached out and patted her shoulder once—quick, solid, like he wasn't sure what else to do with praise.
"Yeah," he said. "I will."
Then he stepped back, letting her return to Lux. Letting her breathe.
Sarah lingered, still amused, still watching the deck like it was a stage.
Her eyes flicked to Artoria.
And Sarah's whole face turned into that high-school-girl energy that did not belong in a war zone and yet somehow survived anyway.
She nudged Artoria gently. "Hey. Pool?"
Artoria looked puzzled. "Pool?"
Sarah didn't wait for a second answer. She hooked her arm through Artoria's like it was already decided. "Come onnn. You can't be on deck looking like that and not get in."
Artoria's ears practically went red. "I am not—"
Sarah was already dragging her. "Yes you are."
Artoria tried to protest on principle, but the resistance lasted about two steps before she sighed and let herself be pulled along, muttering something that sounded like a complaint and a surrender at the same time.
Ace watched them go like his brain short-circuited.
Peter watched Ace watch them and immediately started smiling like he'd just found his new favorite hobby.
Ace noticed.
Peter didn't even get the joke out this time.
Ace raised his fist again. "Say it and I swear—"
Peter backed up, hands up, innocent. "I didn't say anything!"
"You were going to."
Adriel let the noise drift past him as his gaze followed Sarah's lower beck for one stupid second longer than it needed to.
Sunlight hit her just right. Water sheen. Confidence. Easy laugh.
Adriel's brain, traitor that it was, supplied a completely unnecessary observation.
He shut it down instantly—like slamming a laptop closed.
Bro. Focus.
He adjusted his shades like they were responsible for his thoughts and not him.
"This," he told himself silently, "is why you brought shades. Because the view is... a lot."
He breathed out, annoyed in the way you get annoyed at your own bad timing.
And yeah—he could admit it. A good chunk of the surviving champions were objectively gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that made it hard to pretend you were a monk, even if your life demanded it.
He wasn't going to pretend he didn't enjoy the scenery.
But he was also not going to let himself get stupid.
He looked back at the pool deck—the food, the laughter, the splashing, the weird little normal moments stitched into a world that had been trying to die.
And for the first time in too long, Adriel let himself think:
Yeah... this is a good day.
Then, like the universe had a sense of humor, the thought came right after:
Surely it can't get any better.
He didn't know it yet.
But it was the kind of thought that always dared reality to answer.
Before Adriel could keep pretending he was just "observing the scenery" like a normal, respectful adult human being—specifically not looking in Zoe's direction and definitely not acknowledging Lamb because he wasn't that kind of weird—he heard a voice behind him.
Smooth. Familiar. Too pleased with itself.
"Enjoying yourself, mi rey?"
He froze for half a second. He knew that voice. He'd heard it in the throne room, in the halls, in his room when he was trying to sleep, and once—unfortunately—directly in his ear when she decided subtlety was a myth.
Adriel turned.
And yeah—spit take wasn't even dramatic. If he'd had a drink in his mouth, he would've choked. If he'd had two, he would've died.
Qiyana stood there like she'd personally commissioned the concept of "pool party" and then billed the universe for it.
She was wearing a deep sea-green strapless bandeau, tight and clean-cut, but the whole top was finished with ruffled layers—soft frills that made it look playful while still screaming expensive. Under it, the line of the fabric sat snug like it was meant to stay put no matter how hard she decided to be a menace today.
The bottoms matched—dark teal, high-cut at the hips—and over them she'd wrapped a sheer, translucent teal sarong, tied at one hip with a bright pink bow. The fabric draped diagonally across her thigh, short and asymmetrical, like it was designed specifically for walking up to someone and making them forget how language worked.
She had her little extras too—gold bands, flower accents, that whole "I'm royal even when I'm trying to ruin your day" vibe.
Adriel—traitor to his own sanity—couldn't stop his eyes. One scan, top to bottom, automatic. Like his brain did it before he could vote.
Qiyana purred at the attention. Shameless. Proud. Practically glowing. She leaned into it like it was her birthright.
"Does this catch your fancy?" she asked, chin tipped up. "Or do I need to do something more dramatic to finally get your attention?"
Adriel already knew the answer to the real question underneath that.
She'd been like this for weeks. Longer, honestly—ever since he came back, ever since he pulled Ixtal out of the mud and put breath back into it. She'd wanted him from the moment she realized he wasn't some traveling myth, but a real person who'd looked death in the eye and told it to wait its turn.
And to be really honest... if this was the old Adriel?
Yeah. The old him would've let her. No debate. No fear. He would've done ungodly things to the poor mattress in his room and then pretended he didn't care.
But that Adriel died a long time ago. Or got killed. Or got tortured into splinters for 900 quintillion years until fear became muscle memory.
Because the problem wasn't Qiyana.
The problem was the pattern.
Chisato. Rebecca. Sofya.
The way he'd had to leave people behind "for their own good," or because a system forcibly erased the memories of the people he cared about—and he'd had to fight his way out, come back, and put those memories where they belonged. The way he'd learned that staying too long in one place felt like painting a target on everyone he cared about. The way Darks didn't just fight you—they used you.
And the fucked-up part? Qiyana knew that.
He'd told her enough. Not everything, but enough. She knew why he flinched at comfort. Why he hesitated right at the edge of something good. Why he kept pretending he wasn't getting attached while his actions said the opposite.
And she'd still chased him anyway.
Like she was trying to drag him out of that shell by force. Like she was daring him to believe he deserved anything that wasn't pain.
He hated how effective that was.
He hated how he could feel himself starting to crack.
Because she kept pushing. And he kept not fully stopping her. And there was only so much a man could hold back when the girl in front of him was basically a weaponized temptation with a crown complex.
And then his brain did that thing it always did—accelerated thought, a thousand outcomes in a blink—
This is the last day.
The last day to breathe.
The last day before Piltover.
Before Anansi.
Before whatever insane endgame waited inside that dome.
Adriel stared at her for a microsecond too long.
And made a decision.
Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was overdue. Maybe it was both.
He exhaled, slow, like he was stepping off a ledge on purpose, and finally gave her his full attention—not the distracted "yeah yeah" version, but the real thing.
"Yeah," he said, voice low. "I definitely like what I'm seeing."
Qiyana blinked.
Just once.
Like she'd actually been caught off guard by the tiniest shift in his eyes—an infinitesimal change, but she felt it anyway.
Then her lips curled into a smile that said finally.
Like she'd been waiting for this exact moment and she'd decided she wasn't letting him back out of it.
"You made me wait way too long," her expression said without words.
And Adriel—because he was still him—could only think one thing:
"...Yeah. I'm probably about to regret how hot this is."
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
Artoria kept to the shallows with Sarah, letting the water take some of the weight off her shoulders. Sarah did most of the talking—idle jokes, little observations about who was winning volleyball, who was cheating, who was absolutely going to regret eating ribs and then immediately trying to swim.
Artoria laughed when she was supposed to. Smiled when it made sense.
But her attention kept drifting.
Sivir sat near the edge of the pool like she'd been placed there and forgotten. Not splashing. Not joining in. Just... present. Her swimsuit said pool party, but the way she held herself didn't. She stayed half-turned away from the flow of people, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on the water like it was safer than looking at anyone's face.
And that—more than anything—didn't feel like Sivir.
Artoria had only glanced her way at first. Once. Twice. Then it became a habit, like checking a wound to see if it's still bleeding. Every time a man passed behind Sivir on the deck, her posture tightened—small, automatic, like her body reacted before her mind could catch up.
Artoria's stomach sank.
She remembered Hercules's voice. The way he'd spoken about Shurima like it was a playground. The way he'd implied what he'd done. The way Artoria had arrived too late to stop the year—only to stop what came after.
And the guilt still sat in her chest like armor she couldn't take off.
Sarah noticed her spacing out and nudged her lightly with her shoulder.
"You're doing that thing," Sarah said.
Artoria blinked. "What thing?"
"The 'I'm smiling but I'm not here' thing."
Artoria's lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't deny it. She couldn't. Her gaze flicked back to the pool edge.
"Sivir," she admitted.
Sarah's expression shifted immediately—lighter humor gone, replaced by something quieter. Something that understood without needing every detail explained.
"...Yeah," Sarah murmured.
Artoria exhaled through her nose. "I haven't checked on her. Not properly. Not since..." She swallowed, eyes still on Sivir. "Not since Shurima."
Sarah didn't push. She just watched Sivir too, like she was measuring the distance between alive and okay.
"You want to go?" Sarah asked, gentle. "We can just... talk to her. No pressure."
Artoria hesitated for half a heartbeat—then nodded once.
They started toward Sivir, wading through the water instead of walking the deck. It felt less invasive that way. Less like cornering her.
Up close, it was worse.
Sivir's gaze was unfocused, fixed on her own reflection in the pool. She looked like she was staring through herself. Like she was somewhere else, somewhere that didn't have sunlit water and music and people laughing.
Sarah called her name softly.
"Sivir?"
Sivir jolted like the sound had yanked her back by the spine. Her shoulders went rigid. Her eyes snapped up—sharp, defensive—
Then she recognized them.
Sarah. Artoria.
Her breath left her slowly, like she'd been holding it.
Artoria stopped a respectful distance away. Not too close. Close enough to be real.
"...How are you?" Artoria asked.
Sivir stared for a second like the question didn't belong in her mouth anymore. Like How are you? was something said in another lifetime.
"I'm..." Sivir started, then stopped. Her throat worked. "I'm alright."
Sarah didn't move. Didn't crowd her. Just stayed beside Artoria like backup.
Artoria's eyes softened. "You don't have to lie."
Sivir's gaze dipped to the water again. Her fingers traced the pool's edge, slow and absent.
"I don't even know what 'normal' is supposed to feel like anymore," she said quietly. "I keep trying to act like it's fine, because everyone's... everyone's finally smiling again."
Artoria's jaw tightened—not at Sivir. At herself. At the memory of Shurima. At that year that couldn't be undone.
She kept her voice calm anyway.
"You don't have to perform here," Artoria said. "Not for us. Not for anyone."
Sivir's lips twitched, not quite a smile. More like disbelief.
Artoria continued, carefully. "I've noticed... when men walk by."
Sivir's entire body tensed again, as if she'd been caught doing something wrong.
Then she looked down, ashamed.
"I know," she whispered. "I know they didn't do anything. I know they're not him. They're not—" She stopped, swallowed hard. "It's just... my body reacts before I can stop it."
Sarah lowered herself into the water a little more, staying level with Sivir instead of above her.
"It makes sense," Sarah said, quietly firm. "You survived. Your brain did what it had to do to keep you alive."
Sivir's eyes flickered, glassy.
Artoria felt a familiar, helpless anger flare in her chest—anger at Hercules, at the Darks, at a world where survival came with a price like this.
Sivir spoke again, voice raw.
"He..." She didn't flinch from the word. "He raped me."
Sarah didn't gasp. Didn't recoil. She just nodded once, like acknowledging the truth was the first act of respect.
Artoria's hands clenched under the water. She forced herself to breathe.
"I'm sorry," Artoria said, voice low. "I'm sorry you were left alone in that."
Sivir's gaze stayed down.
"It was a year," she said, like she was still trying to understand how time could be that cruel. "A whole year of being treated like I wasn't a person. And now I'm here and everyone's kind and I don't know what to do with it."
Sarah's voice softened. "You start small. That's what you do. One good day at a time."
Sivir's eyes lifted, hesitant. "I don't want to be like this."
Artoria leaned in just slightly—enough to be felt, not enough to invade.
"Then don't do it alone," Artoria said. "Everyone here has scars. Different kinds. But no one's going to punish you for having them."
Sivir's gaze shifted—past them—to the far side of the pool deck.
Adriel sat with Qiyana, looking like he was trying to pretend he wasn't being treated like the center of the universe. Even from here, you could tell he was tired in a way sleep didn't fix.
Sivir's voice came out small. "I should... thank him. I should thank you too."
Sarah glanced at Artoria, silently encouraging.
Sivir finally looked at Artoria directly. "You didn't have to save me," she said. "You could've left me there. You could've—"
"I won't ever do that," Artoria cut in, immediate. No hesitation. "Not again."
Sivir blinked, and her eyes went wet.
"...Thank you," she whispered.
Artoria's expression softened into something that looked like old knighthood, long-buried and suddenly remembered.
"I would do it again," Artoria said. "Every time."
For a moment, Sivir's shoulders dropped. Just a fraction. Like her body had finally been given permission to stop bracing.
Sarah smiled gently. "See? That's a start."
Artoria nodded once, then added—quiet, deliberate—
"And when you're ready to thank Adriel... I'll walk with you."
Sivir swallowed, then gave the smallest nod in return.
Not healed.
But present.
And for now, that was enough.
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
Peter and Ace drifted toward the nearest kiosk like gravity worked differently around food—still riding the leftover adrenaline of their little "cat and mouse" routine. If you could call it that. It had mostly been Ace chasing a troublemaker with a flaming fist while everyone else pretended it was totally normal behavior at a pool party.
Taric had appeared out of nowhere halfway through it, as if the universe itself had spawned him in just to witness the chaos. He didn't ask questions. He simply followed them with the serene patience of a man who'd seen the apocalypse and decided he was done being surprised by anything.
The kiosk they stopped at belonged to Pantheon.
And it was... ridiculous, in the best way.
No one would've guessed the guy who looked like a Spartan carved out of a mountain would end up selling pastries—yet here he was, sleeves rolled, apron on, moving with the calm efficiency of someone who'd found a new war worth fighting. The champions had been quietly supporting each other's "new normal" jobs since Ixtal became the last safe haven. It wasn't charity. It was routine. A way to rebuild a life without announcing you were rebuilding a life.
Behind the scenes, though, this wasn't just Pantheon being Pantheon.
Qiyana had been talking his ear off for days—weeks, maybe—about food. About Adriel's food. The stuff that made him homesick in that specific, knife-twist way. She'd gotten weirdly serious about it, researching like she was preparing a campaign instead of a menu.
Things like quesitos. Empanadillas. A whole lineup of things you'd find in a Puerto Rican panadería—a bakery, but more like a neighborhood institution.
Pantheon had been a little thrown by the dedication. A lot thrown, honestly. He'd said as much to her once, and she'd just waved it off like it was obvious.
"If he misses home," she'd told him, "we bring home to him."
Pantheon didn't know what to do with that kind of devotion. It was intense. Slightly terrifying. But Adriel didn't seem... upset by it. Just overwhelmed sometimes. So Pantheon had filed it under: Not my problem. My savior can handle overly dedicated women. Probably.
Right now, Pantheon was restocking like his life depended on it. A basket of cheese empanadillas (empanadilla de queso) went down first—golden, flaky, the edges crimped tight. Then seafood empanadillas (empanadilla de mariscos), still steaming, smelling like salt and spice and comfort. Cheesecake and other sweets sat on display too, but the way people had been swarming his kiosk, it was a miracle there was anything left that wasn't just crumbs and regret.
Ace and Peter each had an empanadilla in hand. Taric did too, eating like he was trying very hard not to look impressed by food.
They leaned against the kiosk like it was a bar and this was their little corner of peace.
Ace, mouth half-full, nodded at Taric's hair.
"Alright. Real question," he said. "How the hell is your hair still perfect after a year of Dark nonsense?"
Taric blinked slowly, as if he'd been asked to explain the tides.
"I... don't know," he admitted. "I suppose I was fortunate."
"Fortunate," Peter echoed, skeptical.
Taric's expression stayed completely sincere. "I found shampoo."
Ace laughed like that was a punchline.
Peter stared. "Found shampoo. In Targon. Where Mangog was camping out."
Taric lifted one shoulder in a small, graceful shrug. "He brought items sometimes."
Peter squinted. "Like—on purpose?"
"No." Taric said it with the calm certainty of someone who'd watched it happen more than once. "He would arrive with... things. Weapons. Armor. Food. And occasionally... other objects. He discarded what he didn't want."
Peter's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "So Mangog was basically Santa, except with anger management issues."
"That is..." Taric began.
Ace snapped his fingers like he'd just found the funniest mental image on earth. "Bro. You're telling me you were sneaking into Mangog's throne room like a raccoon in a pantry, just to steal toiletries?"
Taric's eyes narrowed a fraction. Not angry. Just deeply, profoundly regretting that he'd spoken at all.
Peter and Ace rode the moment for exactly as long as they could without being assholes about it.
Which was... not long.
They eased off, still grinning, and Peter's attention drifted to Pantheon, who was wiping his hands and glancing between them like he was bracing for the next disaster.
Peter tilted his head. "So what pizzas you making today?"
Pantheon didn't even flinch. "Everything."
Peter paused like his brain needed to buffer. "Everything... like... everything?"
Pantheon's stare didn't change. "Everything."
Peter's face lit up so fast it was almost offensive.
He turned to Ace with a look that didn't need words. A silent, sacred agreement between two men who treated calories like an achievement.
Ace smirked back, equally wordless. Absolutely down.
Taric, meanwhile, frowned slightly. "What is... pizza?"
Peter went still.
The way he froze, you'd think Taric had admitted he didn't know what water was.
Ace slowly turned his head. "Nah. No way."
Peter's voice came out thin. "Taric. You're joking."
Taric wasn't joking. "I have never asked."
Peter looked at Pantheon like he was begging the universe for a different answer.
Pantheon didn't help. "He never asked," he repeated, like that explained everything it needed to.
Ace and Peter nodded in unison, solemn.
"Makes sense," Ace said. "He eats like he's on a diet."
Peter added, "Majestic people always do."
Taric stared at them both, expression tightening. He could physically feel the teasing circling back around like a shark.
"...You are both exhausting," he said, flatly.
Peter held up a hand in surrender. "Okay, okay. Truce. We'll teach you later. Promise."
Ace nodded. "Like—properly."
Taric didn't look convinced. But he took another bite of the empanadilla anyway.
Peter leaned in toward Pantheon, suddenly businesslike. "Alright. Order. Half meat lovers, half extra cheese."
Ace pointed like he was confirming a battlefield strategy. "Yes."
Pantheon nodded without hesitation and turned to start prepping, strangely pleased to be given a mission.
Taric, on the other hand, went pale in real time.
"Half..." he repeated, as if trying to process the concept of that much food existing in a single object. "Meat lovers...?"
Peter clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Don't be scared."
Ace grinned. "It's just pizza."
Taric watched them like they were both insane.
He wasn't wrong.
And as Pantheon got to work—apron on, hands moving, the smell of fresh dough and melted cheese already starting to creep into the air—Taric took one slow breath and accepted a terrible truth:
If he was going to survive being around Guardians... he was going to need stronger mental defenses than shampoo.
A few hours slid by in that soft, unreal way only a "day off" could manage—like time itself didn't know what it was supposed to do when nobody was screaming, bleeding, or rewriting reality.
The pool area had slowly stopped being scattered pockets of people and turned into... something closer to a community. Little groups formed, merged, split, then re-formed again. Someone started a new round of volleyball. Someone else kept the grill alive like it was a sacred duty. Plates and cups migrated from hand to hand. Laughter came easier now—still cautious in places, still fragile in others, but present. It wasn't forced. It wasn't performance. It was just... relief, leaking out of bodies that had spent a year holding their breath.
Late afternoon light warmed the stone. The sun sat lower, the shadows longer, the breeze cooler across wet skin. And Adriel—who'd been doing his best to act like he was relaxing—finally made a decision that wasn't about strategy or the end of the world.
He wanted something familiar. Something stupid. Something that would make people forget they'd ever been afraid, even if only for twenty minutes.
So he placed a table.
Not some delicate, ceremonial "royalty" table either. A normal one. Sturdy. Flat. The kind that could survive getting slapped.
A few heads turned at the sound of it. Curiosity spread in a ripple.
"What's that?" someone asked.
Adriel didn't answer immediately. He just set down a small wooden case—plain, worn at the edges like it'd been opened a thousand times. He popped it open.
Dominoes.
The tiles gleamed in the sun: black backs, pale faces, clean pips. They looked harmless. Almost cute.
They weren't.
Qiyana knew exactly what it was the moment she saw the case. Her posture changed like a switch flipped—chin lifting, eyes sharpening, that smug little "oh, we're doing this?" expression sliding onto her face like a crown.
Of course she knew. She'd read it. Somewhere in Adriel's library, buried between "things he misses but refuses to say out loud" and "random comfort from home," she'd found it and treated it like sacred scripture.
The Guardians knew too, obviously. Peter's mouth twitched like he was about to laugh. Ace made a noise that was half interest, half suspicion—like he could already sense the chaos potential and wanted to see if it was his kind of chaos.
But the others? The champions?
They watched like they were witnessing a ritual.
Adriel dragged a chair out and sat like it was nothing. Like he hadn't just dropped one of the most dangerously competitive games on the table without warning.
"This," he said, tapping the case once, "is dominoes."
A couple people leaned in. Someone muttered, "It's just tiles."
Adriel's eyes flicked up, deadpan. "That's what everybody says right before their friendship ends."
Qiyana snorted softly, like she was trying not to laugh and failing.
Adriel glanced around at the pool party—at the barbecue smoke curling into the sky, at the fruit trays, at the wet footprints on stone, at the people who were finally starting to look like themselves again—and he added, almost casually:
"It's a Latino thing. You'd think Uno gets heated? Nah. This is the older cousin. This is... generational beef. This is family reunions getting cancelled."
The word Latino alone was enough to make a few people blink, because no one here knew what that truly meant. But the way he said it—like he was warning them and inviting them at the same time—made it sound like a challenge.
The smart ones drifted closer first.
Swain approached with the measured confidence of a man who never entered a situation without intending to control it. He didn't smile, but his gaze was interested—that quiet, predatory curiosity he saved for puzzles and enemies.
LeBlanc followed like a shadow that chose to be seen. Calm. Elegant. Amused already, because if Swain was intrigued, she was automatically entertained.
They stopped at the table. Swain's eyes flicked over the tiles in the case, then to Adriel, then to Qiyana.
"A game," Swain said, voice smooth as iron. Not a question. An assessment.
"A war," Qiyana corrected immediately, dragging a chair out and sitting beside Adriel like she owned the table too. "A small one."
Adriel shot her a side glance. "Relax, Empress."
She leaned in, grinning. "No."
LeBlanc's gaze slid over them both like she was reading a script behind their faces. "And we're invited?"
Adriel shrugged. "If you're brave."
Swain's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but the closest thing he offered. "Bravery isn't the issue."
"Oh, it is," Adriel said, tapping the case again. "Because you're gonna learn real quick that confidence doesn't save you from getting cooked."
Qiyana made a satisfied sound, like she approved of the energy.
Swain moved a chair to the opposite side of the table. LeBlanc sat beside him without asking—like it had always been the arrangement. Like the world simply made room.
Adriel's eyes flicked between them. "Alright. Four players. Two teams."
Qiyana didn't even hesitate. She rested her elbow on the table and pointed two fingers at herself and Adriel like she was claiming a prize. "Us."
Adriel didn't fight her on it. He didn't even pretend to. He just sighed like a man surrendering to inevitability.
Swain's gaze narrowed a fraction. "Of course."
LeBlanc smiled sweetly. "I suppose we'll have to humble royalty."
"Try it," Qiyana said, bright and sharp. "I dare you."
Adriel lifted a finger between them, immediately cutting off the escalation before it became an actual diplomatic incident. "Okay. Before y'all start doing whatever this is—"
He waved vaguely at the tension.
"—you need to learn how the game works. Because right now, none of you know what you're looking at."
Swain tilted his head. "Then teach."
Adriel reached into the case and poured the dominoes onto the table.
The sound wasn't loud. But it was distinct. A clean clatter of tiles that made half the nearby conversation dip for a second—like the universe itself leaned in to listen.
Adriel spread them out face-down and started mixing them with both hands, shuffling them in a wide circle. The movement was easy. Familiar. Muscle memory. He looked more relaxed doing this than he had at any point since the meeting.
"This is a double-six set," he said. "Twenty-eight tiles."
He flipped one tile up between his fingers, showing the two halves. "Each tile has two numbers. You match ends. Like... if the board has a four, you can play a four."
LeBlanc's eyes followed the tile, sharp and attentive. "Simple."
"Yeah," Adriel said immediately. "That's the trap."
Qiyana clicked her tongue like she agreed with him on principle.
He placed the tile back down and continued shuffling.
"Each player draws seven tiles. You keep them hidden. That's your hand."
Swain's gaze dipped to the face-down pile. "No additional draw after?"
Adriel nodded. "No deck. No refill. If you can't play, you pass."
LeBlanc leaned her chin on her hand, amused. "So it's... a slow strangling."
Adriel blinked once. "...Why did you make it sound like that?"
She smiled. "Because that's what it is."
He glanced at Swain. "See? Y'all are already getting it."
Qiyana tapped the table impatiently with her nails. "And scoring."
Adriel nodded. "Right. If you go out—meaning you play all your tiles—you win the round."
Swain's voice was calm. "And if the board locks?"
Adriel's eyebrows lifted. "Okay, you're dangerous."
Qiyana looked pleased. "He's smart."
Adriel pointed at Swain. "Yeah. If the game gets blocked—nobody can play—then whoever has the least points in their hand wins the round."
He gestured at the pips. "You count the dots. That's your hand value."
LeBlanc's expression sharpened. "So you can win without going out. By starving the board."
"Yup," Adriel said. "And that's where the mind games start."
Swain's gaze drifted briefly to LeBlanc, then back to Adriel. "What are we playing to?"
Adriel thought for a half-second. "Keep it friendly. First to a hundred points."
Qiyana leaned closer. "Capicú?"
Adriel immediately gave her the look. "Don't start."
LeBlanc perked up. "Capicú?"
Qiyana's smile widened, like she'd been waiting for an excuse to explain violence in a socially acceptable way. "If you end the game by playing a tile that makes both ends match? It's a statement."
Adriel exhaled through his nose. "It's also a way to start arguments."
Swain's voice was mild, but his eyes were interested. "We'll allow it."
Adriel stared at him. "You just learned the rules ten seconds ago."
Swain didn't blink. "And?"
Adriel looked at Qiyana like see what I'm dealing with? She just smirked like she was thrilled.
He slid the shuffled pile into a neat face-down "yard" in the center of the table.
"Alright," Adriel said, tone shifting—still casual, but now it had the edge of game time. "Pick your bones."
Swain reached first, smooth and deliberate, drawing seven tiles and stacking them in his hand without letting anyone see the faces.
LeBlanc drew next, almost lazily, like it didn't matter—but her eyes flicked down fast enough to catch everything she needed.
Qiyana grabbed hers with the confidence of someone who'd been waiting for this moment all day.
Adriel drew last, not rushed, not slow. Just... comfortable.
Around them, the pool party kept moving—people talking, laughing, splashing—but a little circle had formed near the table. Curious onlookers. Champions who didn't know what dominoes was, but could feel the energy building anyway.
Adriel glanced at Swain and LeBlanc. "Any questions?"
LeBlanc lifted a brow. "Only one. Are you always this cocky?"
Adriel's mouth twitched. "Only when I'm about to win."
Qiyana leaned back in her chair, smug as hell. "Get ready."
Swain set his tiles in a fan and looked across the table—calm, focused, already calculating. "Then begin."
Adriel had contemplated if this was a good idea.
Not the pool party—that part was fine. The sunlight, the food, people laughing like they remembered how. That was good. He'd wanted that.
It was the dominoes.
Because honestly? He'd just thrown a table down, dumped a box of tiles, and started mixing pieces around like it was nothing. A little nostalgia. A stupid little comfort. Something that reminded him of before fiction, before Darks, before dying a million ways with a straight face because you had to.
Back home, he used to play with his grandpa and his uncles. They played like they could read minds. Like they already knew what you had in your hand the second you touched a tile. They'd smack the table, curse each other out, laugh like maniacs, and somehow still do math faster than him. At first, Adriel got his ass beat so many times he learned the most important rule of all: you don't show it on your face. You just take it, you learn, you come back, and you try again.
That was what this was supposed to be.
Except now?
Now he was sitting here with LeBlanc, Swain, and Qiyana looking like they were about to turn dominoes into a summit meeting. Like the tiles were an IQ test. Like winning meant... something.
He stared at the three of them and felt this slow, irritated disbelief settle behind his eyes.
Why is everybody acting like they're measuring dicks? Or— he glanced at Qiyana without moving his head, —pussies, in this case.
He didn't care. He really didn't. He just wanted to play a nostalgic game and maybe laugh a little. But the way they were looking at each other—tense, calculating, smug—made him feel like he'd accidentally spawned into a Pokémon battle. Or some Yu-Gi-Oh duel. Like one wrong move was gonna send somebody to the Shadow Realm.
He seriously considered standing up and leaving.
But he'd started it.
So he was going to finish it.
Adriel leaned forward, elbows on the table, and asked, casual as hell, "Alright. Who got the cow?"
Silence.
Three faces turned to him like he'd just spoken in code.
LeBlanc's smile didn't move, but her eyes narrowed slightly. Swain looked at him like he was evaluating whether that was a trick question. Qiyana blinked once—she knew the word from the library, but it still sounded ridiculous out loud.
"The... cow?" Swain repeated.
"Yeah," Adriel said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "La vaca. Double-six. Who got it?"
They still stared.
So Adriel sighed and did the thing he always ended up doing: translating his whole life for people who had never lived it.
"The double-six tile," he explained, tapping two fingers on the table. "Six on one side, six on the other. Whoever got that usually starts. That's what I mean."
Understanding clicked across the table in a staggered wave.
LeBlanc's expression brightened first—subtle, satisfied. She fanned her tiles just slightly, like she didn't even need to look anymore, then she lifted her gaze.
And smiled.
"Oh," she purred, and placed her first tile down with a clean click.
Double-six.
Of course she had it.
Adriel didn't react. He just nodded once, like, yeah... makes sense.
Qiyana went next. Smoothly. Confident. Like she'd been waiting for the chance to prove a point that only existed in her head. She played without hesitation, setting her tile down like she owned the table.
Swain was third.
And Swain—Swain didn't just play.
He studied.
He stared at the board for a moment longer than necessary, eyes sharp, posture annoyingly calm, like he was already running probabilities in the back of his head. And when he finally placed his tile, it was with this faint smugness that made Adriel's jaw tighten.
Adriel had the sudden, powerful urge to humble the fuck out of him.
But he swallowed it.
Let's see what you got, bro.
Adriel went last, glancing down at the chain of tiles like it was nothing, then added his own piece to keep it moving.
At first, it was clean. Straightforward. Everyone played in a line. No drama. No tricks. Just matching ends, building the board, letting the rhythm settle in.
Then they got five tiles deep.
And that's when it shifted.
That's when people started skipping.
LeBlanc skipped Qiyana.
Qiyana's head snapped toward her. Not angry yet—just offended on principle. Like, excuse me?
Swain tried to skip Adriel.
And failed.
Because Adriel calmly placed a tile like he'd been waiting for Swain to try it.
Swain's eyes narrowed.
LeBlanc's smile sharpened.
They tried again.
LeBlanc sat out so Swain could attempt the play. They tried to force a skip. Tried to starve one side. Tried to manipulate what they thought Adriel didn't have.
And every single time, Adriel kept playing.
No pause. No hesitation. No "oh damn."
Just click—click—click.
LeBlanc and Swain started to look baffled. Not loud about it—because they were both too proud for that—but their eyes kept flicking between the board and Adriel's hands like they were searching for the mistake that didn't exist.
They watched which side he fed. They tracked the numbers he avoided. They built theories around the gaps.
He's avoiding that end. That means he's out of that number.
Then Adriel would casually play it anyway, like: nah, I just didn't feel like it yet.
It wasn't even mind games on purpose.
He was just... comfortable.
This wasn't new to him. He'd gotten cooked by old men who treated dominoes like religion. He'd learned how to count, how to bait, how to wait, how to hold. He'd learned how to play while people screamed at each other in Spanish two feet away, how to keep your face calm while your brain sprinted.
So yeah—he could probably do this while drinking. While texting. While half-listening to Peter and Ace acting stupid in the background.
And that was exactly why it was so funny watching Swain and LeBlanc get more and more tense.
They were taking it like it was a political war.
Adriel just wanted the nostalgia.
He didn't even get the bickering he wanted. He would've loved some loud, messy, Latino-style arguing. Someone slapping the table. Someone yelling "¡CABRÓN!" and then laughing five seconds later. That was the real vibe.
Instead, he got silent chess-player energy.
Swain attempted another skip.
Failed again.
And now Adriel had three tiles left.
He glanced at the board, then did something that made the entire table's attention snap in.
He played one side in a way that essentially skipped the entire table.
LeBlanc's brows lifted. Swain's eyes sharpened. Qiyana's mouth opened like she was about to complain—
—and Adriel cut her off before she could.
"Let me cook."
Two seconds of stunned silence.
Then Qiyana—because she trusted his confidence more than she trusted her own instinct—leaned back and shut her mouth.
Fine.
She'd let him cook.
Adriel's move forced LeBlanc into a position that narrowed her options.
He skipped her clean.
Qiyana played next, exactly the way Adriel needed, and with a smug flick of her wrist, she skipped Swain.
Now it was Adriel again.
And he ended it.
He played his last tile with a capicú—both ends matching—like he was signing a paper.
Click.
Game over.
LeBlanc froze.
Swain just stared at the board like it had personally betrayed him.
Qiyana sat there like this was the most natural outcome in the universe, her expression practically screaming: Of course my king won. Obviously.
Adriel didn't even look proud.
If anything, he looked mildly annoyed that they'd taken it so seriously.
But then his irritation softened, because he caught the real thing underneath it.
Swain and LeBlanc hadn't been trying to prove something to him.
They'd been trying to prove something to themselves.
Confidence. Control. A reminder that they still had sharp minds, still had something they could win, after a year of being crushed by horrors they couldn't fight. They'd underestimated him, sure—and Qiyana too—but the desperation behind their competitiveness wasn't arrogance.
It was grief wearing a different outfit.
So Adriel didn't rub it in.
He leaned back, exhaled, and gave them a small nod. "Y'all were good."
LeBlanc blinked once, then recovered, her smile returning—this time smaller, less smug. "We had... unfortunate odds."
"Bad matchup," Adriel agreed. "Happens."
Swain's pride twitched, but he didn't lash out. He only stared at Adriel for a moment longer, like he was filing the experience away as a lesson.
Adriel flicked his eyes toward the kiosk line, already growing again.
"I'm hungry," he announced, casually steering the whole moment away from anything that might sting. "I want an empanadilla de pizza and an iced tea before Pantheon runs out again."
Qiyana immediately perked up. "I haven't tried those yet."
Adriel pushed his chair back. "Then we're going. Before he gets robbed."
LeBlanc rose as well, smoothing her posture like she hadn't just gotten humbled by a Puerto Rican dominoes veteran. Swain stood with the same controlled dignity he always carried, even when he lost.
And just like that, the table dissolved back into the pool party's larger rhythm.
People returned to their conversations. To the grill. To the water. To laughter. To pretending, for a few more hours, that tomorrow wasn't waiting.
Adriel walked off with Qiyana at his side, already eyeing the kiosk like it was a mission objective.
And for the first time all day, he felt that flicker of nostalgia land the way he'd wanted it to.
Not as pain.
Just... familiarity.
To Be Continued...