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Chapter 7 – Watchers in the Shadows
While Ashryn, Viktor and Singed were immersed in their research the world hadn't stopped.
Vi's - POV
Vi's boots struck the cracked ferrocrete of Virelle's winding streets, the measured beat of her steps cut by city sounds both old and new. In this hour just after dawn, she slipped easily between her duties and the comforts of routine. Life shimmered everywhere in the haze: the sizzle of morning stew at a cart where a tired vendor gave her a nod; the laughter of children chasing a battered ball down an alley, skidding with carefree abandon; the market's scent of fresh bread mingled with the sharp tang of ozone from neon tubing overhead.
An old woman waved absently from a laundry-streaked window, her smile a relic from before Virelle's rebirth. Vi waved back with a flick of her wrist, exchanging daily greetings with a merchant whose lucky coin she'd once fished from a sewer. Posters for market day and a half-promised festival curled on every light pole—small signs of a city learning to live again.
For these few blocks, Vi made herself believe things were truly brighter. She took a moment to buy a sticky rice bun, joked with a street kid about "protecting the peace," and tried to forget her own knotted nerves.
But as the city's rhythm sharpened, Vi's instincts chewed from the inside out. Maybe it was the pile of ignore-me whispers in crowded corners, or just the way a shadow clung a second too long. Every step forward drew her deeper into Virelle's living pulse—and into watchful eyes she couldn't shake. It was a quiet that gnawed, the kind that barons used before making an example.
She stopped under a guttering streetlamp as a drone zipped overhead, cameras sweeping and whirring.
"Got eyes on me today or is it just the morning breeze messing with my head?" she muttered.
As the drone's hum faded, the heaviness pressed in harder.
No one hunted her at midday—not unless it meant trouble.
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Clocktower, Floor B-1.
In the humming tangle below, Powder perched cross-legged on a workbench, bits and tools scattered in her wake. Ekko leaned in, arms crossed, blinking away a stray puff of powder smoke from the last near-miss. The Chomper in her hands—half prototype, half idol—jerked to life under her coaxing, only to spit a weak spark and hiss in mockery.
"Alright, Ekko, safety goggles ON. If it detonates, you're the shield, genius," Powder quipped, masking nerves with bravado.
Ekko grinned. "Yeah? Next time, you catch it while I run for cover."
Powder let the failed bomb roll from her hand. A soft frown broke her playful mask for just a heartbeat.
"If I ever get one of these damned Chompers to work the way I want, maybe then I can prove to them all I'm not just a walking disaster."
Ekko nudged her shoulder. His voice was easy, the words gentle encouragement Powder had only recently learned to accept.
"You always figure it out. And when you do? Just wait—nobody's going to forget your name."
One of Powder's test bombs, meant to be a distraction device, decided its cue was now; confetti and fizz filled the air. Both jerked, then broke into laughter—chaos, but a familiar chaos, and in that sound was belonging.
Cleaning up, Powder glanced at the time. "Hey, let's not be late—Mylo, Clagger, and Vi are already holding a table at the Last Drop! If we're stuck in the lab another minute, Vi'll think we've blown ourselves up again."
Ekko, fighting a grin, replied, "She's probably hoping we haven't. Or at least not in public."
The pair packed up, anticipation and comfort twining between steps. The plan was simple: meet their friends, swap stories, and trade worries for a night—rare calm for a restless crew.
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Flashback – a couple of days before
Far above Virelle's churn, a Black Rose operative wrapped herself in Piltover's twilight, drifting not as a predator but as a rumor. She came here with her superior Lady LeBlanc the Deceiver. After they got here lady LaBlanc can't wait to go and play with Mel Medarda but the information they heard is also not something they could ignore. Her instructions from LeBlanc were chilling in their elegance: she will observe Ambessa Medarda's play for influence and search for Mel Medarda, and her job is to uncover the source of Virelle's rumored ascendancy. Power was never idle—and neither was she.
She gathered whispers from the council's edges while watching the power plays Ambessa wove with iron and silk. Yet, every clue led below—to a city alive and guarded, pulsing with energy that magic and machine barely contained.
Descending into Virelle, she wove veils of illusion and suggestion, bending light and memory as she slid through customs and eluded drones. Every passage, every checkpoint, became a stage for misdirection. Her methods were patient: the subtle nudge of attention elsewhere, the soft fog of forgetfulness for passing guards.
The city's secrets trickled through: rumors of children—trusted, mobile, almost invisible in their freedom. But for authentic information she need to contact someone important. Soon, she found her targets, weak kids with a lot of clearance. Among her targets powder and vi. She prioritised Vi as she hold an official position.
She did not overestimate their threat. They were not prodigies to fear for their might—they were, quite simply, accessible, well-connected, and likely to have overheard everything worth knowing about Virelle's leadership. She needed captives, not heroes.
Powder and Ekko, tightly woven into the city's workings but exposed beyond its ring of steel, were the perfect opening. And she knew from a dozen dossiers that hurting or threatening Powder wouldn't just yield information—it would bring Vi, too, loyal as a wolf and just as easily snared.
After days of work, Tonight, the trap would close.
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Ekko and Powder, minds still replaying lab mishaps and plans for the Last Drop, followed a back way suggested by a passing worker. The shortcut was plausible—Powder had taken it a dozen times before—but tonight, the passage felt too smooth, the air too quiet.
Unseen illusions lengthened the corridor, shadows blurring and lulling with gentle, impossible warmth. Powder felt a flicker of suspicion—too late. Before a word could escape, a cool hand covered her mouth. Ekko, turning to help, found his limbs caught, mind slowing as if climbing through fog.
A Chomper slid from Powder's satchel, rolling out to the floor, blue light blinking in staccato. The Black Rose agent lifted it, lips curling.
"Now, what secrets do you carry, little one?" she murmured to herself.
Their struggling limbs grew slack, voices silenced under the weight of the magician's subtle hypnosis. Not a sound escaped as she carried her captives into the dark.
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Up above, Vi's sense of wrongness crystallized. Powder never missed dinner, and Ekko's messages stayed silent. She found Mylo and Clagger huddled outside the Last Drop, worry plain.
"They're not late. Something's off. Powder would have told someone if she couldn't make it," Vi asserted, tension sharpening every syllable.
"Her comm wasn't working earlier," Mylo offered, biting his lip.
Her earlier unease during the day crept in. She used her clearance as Chief Enforcer to check the drones and noticed some along the route from Powder's lab glitching.
Vi's eyes hardened. "This isn't random. Eyes up, mouths shut—let's trace every dumb shortcut they've ever used. Whoever did this, they're good—and they're still close."
Their search carved through night's narrow alleys, each clue ratcheting the fear tighter. At a service corridor with a door ajar, Vi pulled her friends close, breath held.
The city's usual background chorus dulled as they stepped through, anxiety replacing the calm. Every shadow stretched too long, every silence pressed down—a warning:
A trap, set… and sprung.
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