He pressed his clawed hand to his chest as if he could physically crush the pain. His body had adapted to Zaun's toxins—his skin had toughened, his blood transformed into a strange alchemical cocktail of survival—but no adaptation could protect him from this. The boy he had once been—the one who laughed with Lina, who trusted in Erik's quiet strength—was gone, replaced by something else. Something monstrous. His red eyes glowed faintly in the dark, reflecting the firelight like two smoldering embers. He hated how this pain made him feel human, how it clawed at the walls he had built around his heart.
A sound shattered his thoughts—laughter, clear and bright, so out of place in Zaun's grim symphony. Abel froze, his instincts flaring. He turned toward the noise, his gaze locking onto two figures weaving through the crowd. A girl with vibrant blue hair, her movements quick and erratic, clutched a small bundle to her chest. Beside her walked another, taller, with cropped pink hair, her stride confident despite the wary glances she cast around. Powder and Vi.
His breath caught, though he couldn't say why. He had always known they existed in this world—two sparks destined to ignite Zaun's future. He had heard whispers about them, seen their names scratched onto walls, felt their presence in the undercurrents of rebellion pulsing through the city. But seeing them now, so young, untouched by the horrors that awaited them, stirred something in him he couldn't name. They were children—fragile in a way he had forgotten, yet fierce in their defiance of the world that sought to break them.
Without thinking, Abel followed, his body moving before his mind could protest. He told himself it was curiosity, a distraction from the emptiness inside. But deep down, he knew it was more than that. Their laughter, their bond—it was a mirror of his past, of Lina's gentle smile, of Erik's quiet loyalty. Those fleeting moments of connection he had lost. He despised how it made him feel: weak, vulnerable… human.
The girls slipped into a narrower alley, their voices fading into the night. Abel pursued, scaling the rooftops with ease. His claws dug into rusted metal as he climbed, his movements silent, predatory. Zaun sprawled beneath him—a labyrinth of pipes, flickering lights, and toxic haze. He moved like a ghost, unseen, his red eyes tracking their path. They stopped at a makeshift shelter—a crumbling niche beneath a fractured aqueduct, shielded by a tattered tarp. A single lantern cast a warm glow inside, a fragile beacon against the darkness.
Abel crouched on a nearby ledge, his body still, his breathing shallow. Inside, Vi and Powder sat cross-legged before a meager pile of food: crusts of bread, a bruised apple, a strip of jerky that looked more like leather. Vi broke the bread, handing the larger piece to Powder, who pouted in response.
"You need it more," Vi said, her voice firm but warm. "You're growing, Powder."
Powder rolled her eyes but took the bread, picking at it with exaggerated reluctance. "You always say that. What if you stop growing 'cause you keep giving me your food?"
Vi laughed, ruffling Powder's hair. "Then you'll have to carry me around when I'm all tiny and weak."
Powder giggled, the sound bright and carefree. Abel's chest tightened. How long had it been since he'd heard laughter like that? Not since the orphanage, not since Lina's quiet chuckles or Erik's stifled snorts at his own bad jokes. The memory was an open wound, and he pressed into it, letting the pain anchor him.
The girls kept talking, their voices soft but clear in the quiet night. Powder rambled about some gadget she was building, something that "was gonna go boom real loud." Vi listened, nodding, her face a mix of pride and worry. They spoke of dreams—of changing their circumstances, of someday living in Piltover, where the air was clean and the streets safe. Dreams Abel knew would never come true. He had seen the world's cruelty, felt its weight in his bones. Those dreams were as fragile as the tarp above their heads, doomed to tear under Zaun's relentless pressure.
He wanted to turn away, to leave them to their fleeting hopes, but he couldn't. The glow of neon signs below held him like an anchor in the dark.
Vi stood, stretching. "I'm gonna get water. Stay here, 'kay?"
Powder nodded, already distracted by a toy in her hands—a crude metal monkey with a wind-up key. Vi slipped away, her footsteps fading. Powder hummed to herself, twisting the toy's key. Then, with a clumsy motion, she dropped it. The monkey landed in the waste runoff of a nearby alchemy shop, its surface shimmering with toxic green.
Abel's body tensed. He didn't know why it mattered, why the sight of that toy sinking into filth tugged at him. Powder gasped, dropping to her knees, her hands hovering over the puddle. She hesitated, knowing the liquid was poison, that it would burn her skin—her face twisted in frustration.
Before he could stop himself, Abel moved. He dropped silently to the ground, his claws retracting as he reached into the sludge. The chemicals didn't even sting—his Adaptation had long since made him immune, and his own blood was far more toxic than anything in that puddle. He lifted the toy, shook off the liquid, and placed it on a nearby stone—right in front of Powder's wide eyes.
She squinted, trying to make out his face in the dark, but Abel was faster. Two leaps off the wall, and he vanished over the nearest rooftop.
"Th-thanks…?" Her voice was small but sharp, already carrying the spark of what would one day become Jinx.
Abel watched from the shadows, his red eyes catching the flicker of the still-functioning middle-city lights. Powder froze, gripping the stone where the toy lay. She didn't scream, didn't run. Just stared, her breath quickening, as if sensing the weight of his presence.
Abel turned and disappeared. His heart—if he still had one—pounded. Why had he done that? Why did it matter? He didn't stop until he reached the far edge of the building, overlooking the Undercity, his jagged silhouette stark against Zaun's poisoned sky.
He dropped to his knees, his claws digging into the metal beneath him. He bit his lip—blood welled. The ground trembled, and a single blood-red flower pushed through the cracks, its petals unfurling like a wound. Abel stared at it, his distorted reflection shimmering in his mind. White hair, red eyes, a face that was no longer a boy's but something else—a creature forged by pain and survival.
The sound of new voices snapped him back to reality—fast, agitated, laced with worry. He slid to the roof's edge and peered down. Two boys burst into the alley where Vi and Powder had been. Mylo, lanky, with messy hair and a homemade knife at his belt, waved his arms in frustration. Claggor, stocky, his face angular and guarded, followed close behind.
"Vi, what the hell are you doing out here?" Mylo shouted, his voice a mix of relief and irritation. "Vander's been waiting forever! He's gonna lose it!"
Vi, standing at the shelter's entrance, crossed her arms, her brows knitting. "We were just getting food, alright? Vander told us to learn to be independent. Back off, Mylo."
Powder peeked out from under the tarp, still clutching the toy monkey, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Is Vander really mad? Or are you just trying to scare us?"
Claggor snorted, adjusting his slipping glasses. "He's not mad. He's worried. Which is worse. Come on, before he comes looking himself."
Vi rolled her eyes but nodded. "Fine, fine. Powder, grab your stuff. Let's go."
Powder scrambled to shove her treasures—the toy, a few shiny bolts—into her worn rucksack. The four exchanged quick glances, a silent understanding born of shared hardship. They moved out of the alley, their footsteps echoing in the narrow passage.
Abel watched, his body still, his mind racing. Vander. The name cut like a blade, stirring memories of whispered legends—of a man whose dying shadow would shape Zaun's future. Abel knew their journey to The Last Drop was more than just heading home. It was a step toward the chaos that would mold them, break them, remake them. Vi, Powder, Mylo, Claggor—they were threads in a tapestry he could almost see, woven from blood and fire.
They emerged onto a busier street, where lanterns mixed with smoke and steam hissed from pipes. But they hadn't gone far when a group of five local traders stumbled from a side alley. Their leader, a thin man with small glasses, smirked as he spotted the kids.
"Hey, brats," he rasped, his voice dripping with threat. "You thought you could just take from us and walk away? Uncle don't forgive that."
Vi stepped forward, her fists clenched, her stance unyielding. "Back off, or you'll regret it. We don't need trouble."
Mylo drew his knife, his hands trembling slightly. Claggor stood beside Vi, his gaze cold and steady. Powder pressed close to her sister, her fingers digging through her rucksack—probably for something explosive.
The traders laughed, the sound grating, condescending. They probably just wanted to teach the kids a lesson. They fanned out, surrounding them. Abel, still perched above, felt the familiar chill rising in him. He hadn't planned to interfere—these kids could handle themselves. But their defiance, their unity in the face of hardship, echoed his lost past, stoking the embers of something he'd tried to bury.
The bespectacled trader reached for Vi, his hand closing in on her collar. Before he could grab her, a dull thud rang out. He crumpled, blood seeping from a gash on his head. A shattered brick lay beside him, split from the impact.
The others froze, their eyes darting upward, but Abel was already gone—just another shadow. He'd thrown the brick with lethal precision, his aim honed by months in Zaun's depths. Panic gripped the group. They scrambled to their fallen comrade, suddenly far less interested in the kids.
Vi lowered her fists, scanning the rooftops, her expression briefly puzzled. "Move," she told the others.
Powder giggled, still gripping her rucksack. "Maybe we've got a guardian angel."
Mylo scoffed, sheathing his knife. "An angel? In Zaun? More like some freak with a brick fetish."
Claggor kicked the broken brick, his face impassive. "Let's go. The Drop's still a ways off."
The kids hurried on, their chatter filling the night. Abel followed, leaping from roof to roof, his movements soundless. He kept his distance but never lost sight of them. Why was he doing this? Their laughter, their struggle—it reminded him of who he'd been, of what he'd lost. Or maybe it was simpler: in this broken world, they were the only thing that felt real.
The streets grew denser, the air thicker with the clamor of voices. The heart of Zaun beat here, in its markets and alleys, its people surviving on stubbornness and desperation. Abel's claws scraped metal as he moved, his eyes never leaving the kids. They navigated the crowd effortlessly—Vi leading, Powder trailing, Mylo and Claggor bickering under their breath.
They reached The Last Drop, its weathered façade looming under a flickering neon sign. The tavern's windows glowed with warm light, a stark contrast to the cold streets. Vi pushed the creaking door open, and the kids disappeared inside, their silhouettes swallowed by the haze of smoke and laughter.
Abel stopped on the last rooftop, his claws sinking into metal. He stared at the closed door, the hollowness in his chest shifting—not lighter, but alive, as if something inside him had stirred. The Last Drop. The beginning and the end of everything—for them, for Zaun.