Chapter Text
The air in Zaun smells like rot. It always has, yet I was used to it. It wasn’t the kind of rot that you can just scrub out of your clothes or shake off with a quick wash. It was something deeper. It clings to bones, seeps into the skin, fills every pore in your body. Some days, I think it’s the air itself-heavy with shimmer fumes, acrid tang of smelting pits, and the quiet death of a city choking on it’s own ambition. The smog crowded our lungs, though the people of Zaun didn’t know the gracious clean air that Piltover enjoyed. We were the ignored forgotten pits of hell down here. Despite it all, I loved Zaun’s people especially. It had a strange beauty to it.
I hiked my backpack closer to myself as I walked through the shift alleyways of the Undercity. I clenched the straps closer to my body, gripping the hilt of a knife as I studied the alley. I couldn’t lose the precious medical supplies in this bag. I brushed back a stray strand of green hair back. My hair was dirtied with dirt and blood again. It was a rough night at the clinic. It usually was. I couldn’t remember a night where I got a full night's sleep. Much less a night where I couldn’t hear screams of agony and people groaning in pain. This horrid shimmer addiction was ravaging the people of Zaun.
I perked up, hearing some voices and scuffling. I turned the corner to see a fight before me. Some kids, must be roughly preteen, were cornering a young boy. He must’ve been ten at most. I narrowed my eyes, the preteens shouting as the young boy clutched a ratty piece of bread closer to his chest. He had bruises and his lip was bleeding.
“Give us the food.” One of the preteens snarled.
The boy shook his head and clenched the bread even closer to his body.
“I didn’t want to do this, kid.” The lead boy of the preteen pack pulled out a knife and my eyes widened.
I stepped into the scene, walking briskly over towards the boy, my leg slowing me down. As usual. The young boy made eye contact with me just as the leader grabbed his arm and forced it open with a slash to his arm from the knife. The poor boy yelped in pain and I felt his scream deep in my bones. That’s the worst part about being a doctor. Despite being one for years, I couldn’t help but wince every time a patient cried out in agony.
I slid in front of the boy as I grabbed the preteen's wrist.
“That’s enough.” I murmured.
”Who do you think you are?” The preteen hissed, tugging at his wrist. I held it fast.
I reached behind me and tugged the bread out of the young boy’s grasp. He yelped in shock and grasped at my legs, trying to reach the bread.
“Take it. Go.” I ordered briskly, tossing the bread at the ground.
I released my grip on the preteens wrist and he wriggled away, sending a glare at me as the small group scurried off, already fighting amongst themselves how to divide the bread. I took a deep breath and turned around kneeling before the young boy.
“Hey. I can help.” I offered gently, tilting my head as I studied his eyes. He had murky brown eyes, long untrimmed and dirty hair draping around his shoulders. The boy was wearing a dirty sack, it looked like, with mysterious stains decorating the fabric. His arm was bleeding steadily. From the look of it, the knife only sliced the first two layers of skin, luckily. It was a shallow cut. His eyes were studying my golden eyes intensely.
“Come with me.” I nodded, standing up.
I started to walk again, but I didn’t hear his footsteps. I turned around. The boy didn’t move.
“I can give you food and fix you up.” I added with a soft smile, my tone inviting.
That got him to his feet as he scrambled to my side.
“My name’s Ivy. What’s yours?” I asked quietly.
“Tinker.”
My clinic was tucked into the corner of a crumbling building at the edge of Zaun’s middle level. A faded sign hung from above the entrance, the paint peeling so badly it was impossible to read, but everyone from the Undercity knew what this building was.
Ivy’s Clinic.
The door creaked on it’s hinges as it swung open, revealing a space that was small, chaotic, but undeniably mine. The air was thick with the smell of chemicals, antiseptic, faintly sharp and medicinal. Lights flickered from a set of mismatched lanterns strung across the ceiling, their glow barely cutting through the natural dimness.
The walls were lined with shelves, crammed with jars, bandages, and vials of dubious origin. Some were nearly labeled in my sharp handwriting that no one could decipher, while others were thrown together in a hurry, their contents a mystery even to me. A couple empty mugs sat forgotten on the shelves, their rims stained with tea, next to scattered notes scribbled on the scraps of paper. Cobwebs clung to the wood and mugs.
A large wooden table dominated the center of the room, its surface worn smooth from years of use. Tools were spread across it, a mix of actual medical instruments and improvised tools I’d scavenged over time.
Around the table were a few rickety cots pushed against the walls, the thin mattresses covered by patched blankets. Nestled in the corner was a small pile of children’s toys- a rusted metal car, a chipped wooden puzzle- some items I had scrounged up to keep younger patients…well patient.
There was a basin in another corner, filled with murky water that I needed to change, and next to it, a towel slung over the edge. On a hook above it, my scarf hung, frayed but clean. Like a quiet reminder of the person I used to be…
I’m stitching up Tinker’s arm when the clinic door creaks open. Tinker flinches, but I press his wrist down against the table to keep him still.
“Don’t move.” I mutter, my focus fixed on the needle pulling thread through torn flesh. He doesn’t argue. Poor boy. Most people in the Undercity don’t have the energy to argue when they’re bleeding. And I’m one of the few that can fix them up. Without scamming them. And also providing a good service that will actually heal them.
“Sit if you’re here for treatment,” I say over my shoulder, not bothering to look up. My hands work on autopilot, looping the thread with a precision that only comes from years of practice. I finally finish the job in one quick stitch, tugging gently on the thread. “If you’re here to cause trouble, you can see yourself out.”
I don’t hear the door close. Whoever it is just stands there, silent. Watching.
I glance up, expecting some poor shimmer addict too far gone to form words- or worse, one of the chem-barons’ lackey’s come to collect debts that don’t even exist. But it’s neither.
My breath catches.
It’s him.
Silco.
His name rises in my mind like bile, sharp and burning. The man standing in my doorway isn’t the same one I remember. His face is sharper now, the angles harder, the eyebags deeper, the scar running from his cheek to his lips pulling them into a permanent sneer. His left eye glows a burning ember in the dim light. Like a burning fire across Zaun.
I’d know him anywhere.
Tinker shifts on the table, watching the ordeal silently… I turn back around to finish my work, ignoring Silco. My voice was colder than steel. “Get out.” I look at him over my shoulder.
Silco steps inside and closes the door behind him. He’s moving slow, favoring his left side, one hand pressed against his ribs. Blood seeps between his fingers, staining the fabric of his coat. The blood drips onto the floor, thick like honey. He’s hurt, badly.
For a moment, I think he’s going to say something-one of his trademark barbs, delivered with that infuriating clam. But he doesn’t. His lips part and then he stumbles forward. I catch him out of instinct, the tools in my hand clattering to the ground from Tinker’s stitch work job.
Silco’s heavier than he looks, his weight dragging me back a step. His blood smears across my apron, hot and sticky. I nearly drop him. Everything in my bones screams to let him fall, to drag his sorry ass back into the filthy streets of Zaun and let him die there.
But I don’t.
“Shit.” I hiss, lowering him onto a cot in the corner. Tinker scurries off the table, grabbing the food I had given him, along with some provisions and hurries out of my clinic. Before Tinker left, he gave me a silent look, as if thanking me. I felt a pang in my heart. I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.
I focus my attention back to Silco. Begrudgingly. My hands are already moving, unbuttoning Silco’s coat, pulling it away from the wound. The smell of copper and gunpowder hits me like a slap in the face. I peel away the fabric, his blood sticky.
I frantically grab clean towels and press them against his ribs, trying to stop the bleeding. “You shouldn’t have come here.” I say through gritted teeth, though I know he’s probably too far gone into unconsciousness to hear me. My voice shakes anyway. “You shouldn’t-“
His good eye flickers open, hazy, but still sharp enough to cut. “Still…playing nursemaid.” He murmurs, his lips curling into the faintest ghost of a smirk. “Thought…you’d left.”
I clench my jaw and push harder on the wound, earning a pained grunt. “I did.” I snap. “And you should’ve stayed gone. Far away from me.”
But as much as I hate him, as much as the sight of his face sends memories flooding back….I shook my head. I can’t think of her right now. I don’t stop working. I can’t. Because some things, no matter how broken, are still stitched into me.
And for better or worse, Silco is one of mine.
For a long awful moment, the only sound in the room is the ragged wheeze of Silco’s breathing. My thoughts are racing through my head. His blood is warm and sticking to my skin, the towel was soaked a dark red now. It started to soak my sleeves as I pressed harder against his ribs. The wound is bad-a knife wound, deep enough to puncture something vital if I don’t move fast.
I should let him die.
The thought flickers through my mind, sharp and…seductive. It would be easy. Just let the blood flow, step back and watch as life drains from him. After everything he’s done to Zaun, it’d be justice. After everything he’s done…
Wouldn’t it?
But my hands don’t stop moving. They tear through the supplies I had just acquired on the table besides me. I pull out a clean rag, antiseptic, sutures and everything else I need. The motions are automatic, practiced, like muscle memory dragging me forward despite every screaming part of me that wants to stop.
“Ivy.” Silco rasps, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Don’t.” I snarl, my voice cutting through the tension between the both of us like a blade. I don’t want to hear my name in his mouth. Not now. Not ever.
Silco’s lips twitch-maybe it’s a smile, maybe it’s pain-and his head rolls back against the cot. The glowing orange of his left eye dims slightly. But it’s still watching me, unblinking. It sends a shiver crawling up my spine. I shove the clean rag against the wound, hard enough to make him flinch.
“This is going to hurt.” I say flatly, not bothering to soften the warning.
“I’ve had worse.” He murmurs, his voice faint but laced with that same infuriating arrogance I remember. We both know what injury he’s talking about.
“Good.” I mutter, and I pour the antiseptic straight into the gash.
Silco jerks under my hands and his body arches off the cot in a violent instinctive spasm. For a moment, I think he’s going to pass out, but then he grits his teeth, his jaw tightening like a vice, and his breathing steadies again.
“You’re as ruthless as ever.” He manages, his good eye narrowing at me.
“And you’re as stupid as ever.” I shoot back, forcing myself to focus on the wound instead of his face. “What the hell were you thinking, coming here? I should've left you bleeding in the gutter. And you know it.”
Silco doesn’t answer right away. Finally, he takes his gaze off of me and it flickers to the ceiling. For the first time, I notice how truly bad and gaunt he looks. He’s thinner than I remember, his cheekbones sharper, his skin pale and waxy beneath all the grime. Whatever fight landed him here wasn’t the first one he’s been in recently.
“You’re still the only person in this city I trust with a blade near my ribs.” Silco finally answers, his voice low and dry.
I pause, the needle hovering over his skin. “You shouldn’t.” I say quietly. “Not anymore.”
His good eye meets mine, and for a moment, the air between us both shifts. It’s heavier somehow, charged with something I don’t have the words for. It’s not trust, not after everything. Not forgiveness either. Just…history.
I break the stare first, turning back to the task at hand. The needle slides through his skin with practiced ease, pulling the jagged edges of the wound together. “This will scar.” I say, keeping my voice clinical, professional, detached.
“I’d be disappointed if it didn’t.”
I don’t reply. I don’t wish to speak to Silco more than I have to. The rhythm of stitching is almost soothing, each pull of the thread drawing me further into focus, further away from the whirlwind of thoughts clawing at the edges of my mind. But I can still feel his damn gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting.
“You haven’t changed.” He said after a while, his voice softer now. Almost…wistful.
I freeze, my hands gripping the needle tighter than I should. “You don’t know me.” I say sharply, the words coming out harsh.
“I knew you once.” Silco counters, his voice steady but low. “You were always trying to fix things. Even when they couldn’t be fixed.”
“Like you?” I grumbled sarcastically, the words leaving my mouth before I could stop them.
Silco chuckles dryly. “Yes. Like me…Ivy.”
Something cold and sharp twists in my chest. I tie off the last stitch and step back, pulling off my bloodied gloves with quick, jerky movements. “You don’t get to talk to me like we’re old friends.” I said, tossing the gloves onto the table. “Not after…everything.”
His good eye narrows , and for the first time tonight, his mask cracks every so slightly. “What happened?” Silco murmured, his voice quiet but edged with something dangerous. “We all made choices, Ivy. You were just better and pretending yours didn’t cost anything.”
I step back. Flashes of memories race through me. My breath caught in my throat. The room feels smaller, suddenly, as if the walls were pressing in around me.
“You should go.” I said, like it was an order. Maybe it was. “You’re patched up. Find another doctor to do the rest. You don’t need me anymore.”
For a moment, Silco doesn’t move. His gaze lingers on me, heavy and searching, and I feel like he’s looking at something buried so deep inside me. Then, slowly, he swings his legs over the side of the cot and stands. Silco’s unsteady, his hand braced against the wall for balance, but he doesn’t ask for help. Silco never would.
As he reaches the door, he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.” Silco said, his voice quiet, almost gentle and regretful. “Still playing nursemaid to a city that eats its own.”
“And you’re still pretending to care about Zaun.” I fire back hotly.
Silco’s lips curl into the faintest shadow of a smile, and then he’s gone. Slipped into the toxic haze of the Undercity’s night. The door clicks shit, leaving only silence behind, but it’s not the quiet kind. It’s thick and suffocating, the kind that wraps itself around your throat and reminds you of everything you don’t want to remember. I stood there for a long time, staring at the door. My body is shaking and the weight in my chest is heavier than it’s been in years. I told myself I had left that life behind. That I’ve left them all behind.
But the past has a habit of finding me. No matter how far I run.