Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

That day haunted everyone.
At least, everyone still breathing in the crumbling alleys of Zaun or walking the rain-slicked streets of Piltover. It was a day carved into memory with fire and loss. Fathers, sons, friends—entire lineages gone in a heartbeat. The death toll had never been officially counted; the list was simply too long, the names too many. People stopped trying to remember them all. They just remembered their own.

For Ekko, it wasn’t just a day. It was the day.
The day he lost everyone he held close. His found family, his circle, the few pieces of light he had in a city of smoke. All gone. In the years since, he poured every second of grief into building something—anything—that could withstand the tide of time and pain in his heart.

Benzo’s old shop, once a cluttered relic of a different era, had become a quiet sanctuary. Ekko had gutted it down to the rusted bones and rebuilt it in his image—efficient, sharp-edged with sparks of brilliance. Now it pulsed with a subtle energy, filled with tech and tools scavenged from both cities. A monument not to what was lost, but to what might still be saved.

Rain had been falling for days, trickling from Piltover’s high towers down into the undercity. It seeped through every crack, a steady rhythm of sorrow and inevitability. It tapped gently against the reinforced glass of Ekko’s workshop, muffled but insistent.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of oil, metal, and ozone. Ekko stood hunched over his workbench, tools spread like surgical instruments. Sweat clung to his dark skin, soaking into the fabric of his tank top. His shoulders flexed as he adjusted a bolt, revealing two faint, luminous blue cloud tattoos, glowing ever so slightly from beneath his top—each a silent memory, inked in pain and purpose.

His goggles, scratched and scuffed from long nights, were strapped tight around his eyes as he focused on a broken device handed to him by a desperate customer. He didn't ask what it was for. He rarely did anymore. People came to him because he could fix what others had given up on. Machines. Memories. Sometimes even hope.

Ekko hunched over the cluttered surface of his workbench, brow furrowed in irritation. The small machine in front of him had been driving him insane for hours. It was designed to assist elderly people with limited mobility—augmenting their muscle response so they could move with the ease of their younger selves. A noble cause. But the internal mechanics were fragile, outdated, and riddled with inconsistencies. Whoever designed it had meant well, but they lacked Ekko's precision. He saw potential—potential to make it better.

He had taken the project not just to repair it, but to reinvent it.

Gripping a worn wrench with a calloused hand, Ekko leaned in and tried to adjust a tension bolt deep inside the machine’s core. He strained, twisted—and the moment he let go, it snapped loose violently, ricocheting off the casing and nearly grazing his cheek.

“Damn it!” he growled, flinging the wrench across the room. It clanged hard against the reinforced wall, leaving a faint dent before clattering to the floor.

Frustration boiled beneath his skin. This wasn’t just about the machine. It never was.

The door behind him creaked open, the familiar sound echoing through the narrow confines of the shop. Rain tapped gently against the skylight above, casting dim shadows across the room. Ekko didn’t bother turning around.

“If you need something fixed,” he said flatly, “leave it on the counter. If you want something built, write it down and toss it in the jar.”

Silence, then a voice—low, familiar, touched by years but unchanged in spirit.

“I came to see how you were doing, little man.”

Ekko froze. His hand hovered over the device for a moment before he slowly turned. Only one person still alive called him that.

He removed his goggles and set them on the bench with a soft clink . Standing in the doorway was Vi—her vibrant crimson hair hanging in loose waves past her shoulders, the left side of her head still shaved clean, as it had always been. She carried herself like someone who'd seen more war than peace, but still managed to smirk through the pain.

Beside her stood Caitlyn. Her dark blue hair was pulled back tight, an eyepatch covering her left eye—a war injury, a permanent reminder of the battle that had left scars on them all, visible and otherwise.

Ekko turned back to his work, saying nothing. He knew why they were here. They came around every so often, always with the same quiet concern. Always walking around the thing they never quite said, but always meant.

They came to make sure he hadn’t broken.
To make sure he hadn’t done something he couldn’t come back from.

“I’m busy, ladies,” Ekko muttered, picking up a smaller tool and resuming his adjustments. “What do you need?”

The steady thud-thud-thud of heavy boots crossed the room—Vi, unmistakably. A moment later, her hand settled gently on his shoulder.

He flinched. His tool stopped mid-turn.

“I told you, Ekko,” she said softly. “We’re here to see how you’re doing.”

There was a pause. Ekko straightened slowly, turned to face her. His expression was unreadable, his eyes dark and tired.

“I’m fine,” he said, voice flat. “So you can go now.”

Vi’s eyes flicked back to Caitlyn, who watched quietly from the doorway, then returned her gaze to Ekko.

“Are you going tonight?”

Ekko paused—only for a second. But it was enough.

He looked down at the device on the table, the unfinished project that had become an excuse, a shield. He gestured around the shop, cluttered with parts, blueprints, half-built machines.

“I don’t know,” he replied, his voice tight. “I’ve got things to do. As you can tell.”

Vi didn’t push. Not yet.

But the weight of her name hung between them, unspoken but louder than any shout. Every conversation they had eventually led back to her.

To the pain neither of them could outrun.

“Ekko…” Vi began, her voice quiet, cautious.

But he cut her off sharply.

“Don’t start, Vi.”

He exhaled a slow, heavy breath through his nose, the kind that carried more than fatigue—something deeper, heavier, older.

“I haven’t done anything to myself, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

The silence that followed wasn’t just empty space—it was full of unsaid memories, shared pain, and the weight of what they all had lost. The loss of her still clung to the air, like smoke that refused to fade.

Vi and Caitlyn knew what it had done to him. They felt it too, of course, but not like Ekko.
Not like someone who had loved her before everything went wrong.
Before the madness.
Before the world called her Jinx.

It had shattered him in a way that couldn’t be repaired by time or tech.

Vi remembered the worst of it, all too clearly. 

2 years ago…

It was just days after the war ended—when the rubble was still fresh, and the screams of the dying hadn’t yet faded from the undercity walls. Ekko had gone quiet. Too quiet. No one had seen him for a day. Then she found the note.

Scrawled in rough, frantic handwriting, it didn’t say much. It didn’t have to.

Just a location.
No explanation.
No goodbye.

Vi had bolted out the door like a bullet, Caitlyn barely keeping pace behind her. She knew where he was before she even got there. A rooftop overlooking the broken skyline of Piltover, where you could see what once was and everything it would never be again.

She found him standing at the edge, his feet halfway off, his body tilted forward like a question mark begging for an answer. The wind tugged at his clothes. His head was down. His hands were shaking.

He didn’t hear her at first.

She remembered calling his name. Once. Twice. Then louder.

“Ekko!”

He didn’t move.

So she climbed up beside him, close enough to reach him if she had to. Her voice cracked when she finally spoke.

“You can’t leave me too.”

That was what did it. Not pleading. Not anger. Just that one line.
He broke.

Ekko collapsed into her arms that night, all bravado stripped away, sobbing like the boy he used to be—before the war, before the pain, before she was gone. He hadn't told her everything, but she didn’t need to hear it. She knew.

The Present

Now, in the dim light of his workshop, with machines humming quietly and rain still tapping on the glass above, Vi could see he wasn’t back to that edge—but he wasn’t far either.

“I’m still here,” Ekko said, barely above a whisper, “but I don’t know what that means anymore.”

Caitlyn stepped closer now, her voice gentle but grounded. “It means you haven’t given up yet. And that’s enough for today.”

Ekko didn’t respond. He just looked down at the device on his bench, his hands trembling slightly.

Vi reached for the wrench he’d thrown earlier, bent to pick it up, and set it gently beside him.

“We don’t expect you to be okay,” she said. “Just… don’t vanish. Not again.”

Ekko gave a small nod, barely perceptible, but Vi saw it. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in a firm, grounding embrace. For a moment, he stood rigid, unresponsive—then slowly, his shoulders sank, and his head rested against her shoulder. He closed his eyes.

“You’re not alone, Ekko,” Vi said softly, her voice cracking just slightly. “I lost her too.”

He nodded again, this time against her shoulder. The two of them stood in silence, surrounded by the quiet hum of tools and distant patter of rain, clinging to the fragments of a family shattered by a war they never asked for.

After a few minutes, Vi gently pulled away, brushing the moisture from her eyes with the heel of her hand. Ekko exhaled through his nose, the weight of the moment hanging heavily in his chest.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice rough but sincere. “I’ll be there.”

Vi’s face lit up with a small, warm smile, and Caitlyn’s expression softened beside her, a quiet kind of relief behind her single visible eye.

“Good,” Vi said, voice returning to its familiar rhythm. “Remember, it’s—”

“At the Bridge of Progress,” Ekko finished for her, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I know.”

Vi let out a low chuckle, shaking her head. “You’re never gonna let me finish a sentence, are you?”

Ekko smiled—truly smiled—for the first time in days. “Never.”

Caitlyn gave him a nod and a gentle pat on the shoulder as she turned to go. Vi lingered a second longer, eyes scanning his face one more time to make sure he was really okay , then followed.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Ekko stood there for a long moment, staring at the machine on his bench. The silence crept back in, soft and suffocating. Then, with a tired sigh, he reached over and tapped the control panel on his old speaker system. Music began to play—lo-fi, distorted, with gentle synths that seemed to echo through the metal and glass of the workshop. It was the kind of sound that filled the silence without demanding attention.

He rolled his shoulders, picked up a tool, and leaned back into the machine, letting the familiar rhythm of work calm the storm in his head.

But then it came—like it always did when the silence tried to settle too deeply.
A voice. Sharp. Ironic. Haunting.

“You’re seriously gonna go to this?”

Ekko didn’t flinch. He didn’t have to turn. The voice wasn’t real. It never had been. But it sounded like her—like Jinx . That same chaotic playfulness, laced with bitterness.

He didn’t answer. Not right away.

She always showed up when things got hard—when memories turned to ghosts and the silence got too loud. She lived in the cracks of his mind now, a figment etched into his grief.

“Aw, come on, Clockboy,” the voice teased again. “You really think showing up at some candle-lit pity party’s gonna fix anything?”

Ekko tightened his grip on the tool in his hand. He focused on the bolt in front of him, refusing to engage.

“Oh, right,” she said, her tone sing-song now. “You’re trying to ‘move on.’ That’s cute. Really, it is. But we both know you’re not the guy who gets closure. You’re the guy who rewinds time and still can’t save anyone.”

His jaw clenched. He forced a slow, controlled breath out through his nose. He’d heard her say worse. He knew she wasn’t real—at least not this version of her. This was his guilt, his grief, talking back at him with her voice.

Still, it hurt. It always did.

“Not today,” he whispered under his breath. “Not now.”

But the voice only chuckled, fading into the corners of his mind again.

He didn’t know if he’d ever silence her.

But he kept working.

Because it was the only thing that kept the ghosts at bay.

The wrench in Ekko’s hand trembled slightly as he tightened a cap on the side of the exo support device. His movements were precise, controlled—but his eyes betrayed him. They flicked to the corner of the room, where no one stood, yet he felt her there.

The voice didn't wait for an invitation.

“Aww, what’s wrong? Still trying to fix broken things, huh? Maybe if you add a time gear or two, it'll stop the past from sucking so bad.”

Ekko gritted his teeth. “You’re not real.”

“Of course I’m not,” she said, her voice bouncing through his mind like shrapnel. “But that never stopped me before.”

She circled him in his head, pacing, teasing, mocking—just like she used to do in real life, only now twisted by memory and guilt. This version of her was all sharp edges, born from sleepless nights and what-ifs.

“I mean, seriously, the Bridge of Progress?” she went on. “You’re going to stand there, surrounded by weepy strangers and sad little speeches and light a candle? Like that’s going to make me come back? Like any of that is going to make what happened less real?”

Ekko tightened another bolt. He didn’t answer. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

“Bet Vi cried again last year,” she continued with a cruel grin in her voice. “She always does. And Caitlyn tries to pretend she’s all composed, but you can see it in the way she clenches her jaw. Oh, and you—remember the first year? You brought a locket. A locket, Ekko. That’s rich. You always were the sentimental one.”

He paused, hand resting on the machine.

“Shut up,” he whispered.

“Oh, what’s the matter, clockboy?” the voice sang. “Scared I’m right?”

His shoulders tensed, head dropping low over the workbench.

“You’re not her,” he said, louder now, each word pressed through clenched teeth. “You’re not Powder. You’re not Jinx. You’re not anything but the parts of me that can’t let go.”

There was a pause. Then the voice softened—unnervingly.

“But I am the part of you that remembers her.”

That stopped him.

“I’m the part that still sees her when you close your eyes. The part that hears her laughter when the streets are quiet. The part that knows… if you’d just gotten to her sooner… if you’d just woken up sooner, stopped her that day… maybe none of this would’ve happened.”

Ekko’s breath caught in his throat. His hand hovered over the tool, knuckles white.

He hated how much truth the voice could wield. Because she was right, in a way.

He did still see her. Hear her.
Not just the chaos and destruction.
But her. The little girl with goggles too big for her face, hands always covered in soot and wires, always chasing his heels, asking about every device he touched.

The girl who became something the world couldn’t hold.

“I know I couldn’t save her,” Ekko said, more to himself than to the voice. “I tried. We all did.”

“But you didn’t,” the voice replied coldly.

And that, more than anything else, was what made her so hard to silence.

Ekko stood there, eyes fixed on the device in front of him. For a long moment, there was only the sound of the rain and the low hum of music vibrating through the walls.

Finally, he took a breath and picked the wrench back up.

“I’m going,” he said firmly. “Not for her. Not even for you. For the people she left behind.”

The voice didn’t answer.

But he could feel her watching from somewhere deep in his mind, as if she were folding her arms, raising an eyebrow, unconvinced but curious.

“You always were stubborn,” she finally muttered. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Ekko gave a bitter smile, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he resumed his work.
“She called me clockboy for a reason.”

Hours passed, though Ekko barely noticed. Time used to matter to him. It used to be his greatest weapon—his edge, his escape, his undo button. But now, it just was . A cruel, linear march that wouldn’t slow down or rewind for anyone.

He tightened another screw, adjusted the stabilizer coil, wiped a streak of oil across his arm. The device was almost complete. The upgraded actuator would respond faster, with more control. Whoever commissioned it would walk not just better, but with pride. That mattered to Ekko. Fixing things still mattered, even when nothing else did.

Still… the voice lingered, quieter now, not taunting him, but whispering like a shadow clinging to the edge of a flickering light.

“She’d think it was boring,” it said softly.

Ekko didn’t respond. He just stared at the machine, his reflection faintly visible in the curved chrome of the arm brace.

“She’d have already turned it into a smoke grenade or a pie-launcher or something chaotic and dumb.”

He exhaled a small laugh through his nose, despite himself. Yeah. She would have.

That girl— Powder —she used to sit cross-legged beside him in Benzo’s shop, head tilted, eyes wide with wonder at every little gear he moved. Her fingers were always restless, turning harmless blueprints into something strange and unpredictable.

Back then, she hadn’t been broken yet.

Back then, he hadn’t either.

He sat down on the stool at his bench and finally let the silence settle. He could feel it building in his chest—the dread. The anxiety. The raw, quiet ache of the anniversary. He hated this day. Not just for what it reminded him of, but because every year, it chipped away a little more of what remained inside him.

Every candle lit on that bridge was a person gone. And he’d known too many of them.

Claggor. Milo. Benzo. Countless others, names swallowed by the smog of Zaun and forgotten by Piltover’s polished skyline.

And her.

The one who left a crater in his soul that nothing could fill.

“Why do you even go?” the voice asked again, gentler now. “You know it doesn’t fix anything. They still look at you like you’re the one who survived when you weren’t supposed to. Like you cheated fate.”

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. The cracked panel above his workbench still had burn marks from a failed experiment months ago. He’d never fixed it.

“I go,” he murmured, “because if I don’t… it’s like none of them ever existed.”

The words surprised even him.

“You think lighting a candle keeps them alive?”

Ekko shook his head. “No. But remembering does. And remembering together means we’re not alone.”

The voice didn’t answer. Not right away.

Then—softer than ever—it asked, “Do you remember me, too?”

His chest tightened. He reached under his bench and pulled out a small, worn metal box. It was dented at the corners, scorched at the edges—salvaged from what remained of her old hideout after the war. Inside, untouched, sat a single cracked gear and a folded scrap of blueprint with her handwriting on it.

He opened the box with steady hands and looked at the note.

"Add more boom."

The words still made him laugh. And cry. Sometimes both.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I’ll always remember you.”

He closed the box gently and slid it into the satchel hanging on the back of his chair. Then, slowly, he stood, walking to the corner where his long coat and scarf hung like relics. As he pulled them on, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

He didn’t see the boy from the Lanes anymore. He saw the survivor. The reluctant leader. The broken, brilliant mind trying to fix a city one gear at a time.

He wrapped the scarf around his neck, covering the lower half of his face, and stepped toward the door.

The rain was still coming down, thicker now, turning Zaun’s grime into rivers along the cobblestones. He opened the door, and the damp air kissed his skin.

The voice returned one last time, not mocking, not cruel—just… quiet.

“Do you think she’d recognize you?”

Ekko didn’t answer.

He stepped into the rain.

The rain hadn’t let up—not once in days. It fell like a cold curtain over Zaun, soaking everything in a slick sheen that turned the cobblestones slick and the air heavy with rust and memory.

Ekko moved through it with practiced ease. Hood up, scarf tight around his face, shoulders hunched against the wind. The city breathed differently on this day. Slower. Quieter. Like even the smog and smoke paused to mourn.

He passed shuttered shops and boarded windows, makeshift memorials dotting alleyways and rooftops. Candles flickered in clusters beneath faded murals—some burned down to stubs, others freshly lit. On a nearby wall, graffiti scrawled in bold strokes read:

“WE REMEMBER THE LOST. THE CITY WILL NOT FORGET.”

Below it, a child’s drawing was taped to the wall, soaked at the edges, the ink running. It showed a girl with wild blue hair towering above people with her fist held above her head. Vander’s face was right next to her. The girl was smiling.

Ekko stopped in front of it, his jaw tight.

He turned away before the emotion could surface, his boots splashing through puddles as he climbed a rusted stairwell that led out of the Lanes. The metal groaned beneath him, like the city itself was tired—strained under the weight of the past.

Above, the lights of Piltover cut through the fog in narrow golden shafts, reaching down into Zaun like searchlights from some indifferent heaven. He climbed slowly, each level of the city peeling back another layer of his past.

When he reached the mid-tier—where Zaun began to give way to the underbelly of Piltover—he saw more people now. Silent, hooded figures making the same pilgrimage. Some carried candles in protective glass, others bore framed pictures. A few just walked with empty hands and heavier hearts.

Ekko kept his distance. He always did.

A Piltover enforcer, not Caitlyn, stood near a checkpoint, her armor dulled by the rain. She didn’t stop him—just nodded. They all knew who he was.

He passed through the gate and emerged onto a broad walkway, suspended high above the city. The Bridge of Progress was still several blocks ahead, but now the towering architecture of Piltover loomed around him. Gleaming brass domes. Wrought iron arches. Elegant curves twisted skyward like the bones of some ancient, gilded beast.

But on this day, even Piltover looked different. The lights were dimmer. Flags hung at half-mast. Every step Ekko took echoed in the space between history and grief.

He passed a vendor cart with no one tending it. A bouquet of wilting sunroses sat untouched on the counter, their petals catching the rain like tears.

At one point, he stopped beneath a wide arch and looked out over the drop. Below, Zaun churned like a memory trying to drown itself. The shimmer of chem fog met the rain mid-air, coiling together into misty spirals that danced and vanished.

He used to come here when he was younger. When the world still made sense. When she still made sense.

“Almost there,” the voice whispered.

He didn’t respond.

“Funny how it always ends here. On this bridge. Between what was and what could’ve been.”

Ekko took another step forward.

“Maybe this time,” she said, almost wistful, “you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

He didn’t believe in closure. Not really. But he did believe in honoring .

And that, at least, still mattered.

As he approached the final stretch of the bridge, the figures became more familiar—people he’d fought beside, grown up with, lost pieces of himself for. Some nodded as he passed. Some looked away.

He didn’t blame them.

He reached into his satchel and felt the edges of the metal box again—the one with the cracked gear and her old blueprint. It was warm from where it had pressed against his side. It would be enough. It had to be.

The wind picked up as he stepped onto the Bridge of Progress.

And somewhere behind his eyes, the voice faded again into silence.

The Bridge of Progress stretched out before him, framed by towering arc-lamps dimmed for the occasion. The usual bustle of Piltover had given way to reverent silence. Hundreds had gathered, all ages, all walks of life—from the upper gears of Piltover to the deepest roots of Zaun.

A long table ran along the center of the bridge, candles in thick glass jars flickering in the damp air. Each flame marked a name. A life. A story extinguished too soon.

Ekko paused at the edge, just before the stone gave way to the polished metal plating of the bridge. He stood still, letting the air press in around him—thick with unspoken sorrow and quiet reverence.

Then he stepped forward.

Vi was already there, standing with her arms crossed tight, her posture straight but her expression soft. She wore her jacket open despite the cold, the way she always did when she was trying to look tougher than she felt. Caitlyn stood just beside her, umbrella tilted slightly to shield them both. Her usual precision seemed to have faltered—her left glove was askew, her eyes red-rimmed but clear.

Vi spotted him first.

“Took your time,” she said, voice just above a whisper.

“I had to finish something,” Ekko replied. “Didn’t want to show up empty-handed.”

Vi raised an eyebrow, but didn’t push. She nodded toward the table.

“Come on. They’re waiting.”

They walked in silence until they reached a spot that had clearly been marked for them. Three candles. One for each of them to light. Each with a small brass nameplate in front.

Ekko stared at the one labeled Jinx.

Not Powder.
The name that the undercity came to love while he was gone.
Her name.

He knelt and opened his satchel. From it, he withdrew the metal box and carefully placed the cracked gear next to the candle. It glinted faintly in the low light. A whisper of what once was.

Vi placed a small trinket beside hers—a dog tag, half melted, half rusted. It had belonged to Milo. Caitlyn added a folded violet ribbon, the same kind she used to tie around her hair in her academy days. A tribute to her lost comrades.

Then the three of them reached for the lighters and touched flame to wick. The candles flared, struggling against the dampness, before catching fully and glowing steady.

Ekko watched the flame flicker and sway, casting shadows that danced like echoes of the past.

“She would’ve hated this,” he said quietly, breaking the silence.

Vi chuckled bitterly. “Yeah. Said it was too ‘mushy.’ She’d be throwing fireworks off the side of the bridge.”

Caitlyn gave a soft smile. “Or painting the statues with phosphorescent dye. Again.”

Ekko managed a small laugh. “She never did anything halfway.”

They stood in silence for a long moment, shoulders nearly touching, letting the sound of soft rain and murmured prayers wash over them. People moved around them, lighting their own candles, whispering names to the wind.

Then Vi broke the silence.

“You were right, you know.”

Ekko glanced at her. “About what?”

“Remembering them together. That it matters.”

He looked away, jaw tense. “Some days I don’t know if it’s remembering or reliving.”

Caitlyn stepped forward gently. “Sometimes it’s both.”

Vi turned to face him fully. “We’re still here, Ekko. That has to count for something.”

He nodded slowly. “I know. I just wish…”
He stopped. The words caught, unfinished, unnecessary.

Vi put a hand on his back. No pressure. Just weight. Presence.

They watched the candles together, the flames steady now, a small defiance against the storm above.

Somewhere deep in Ekko’s mind, the voice stirred—but this time, it didn’t speak.

It just watched with him.

And for the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel quite so heavy.

The silence that blanketed the bridge deepened as two figures emerged from opposite ends of the crowd. Councilor Sevika , flanked by members of Zaun’s Clankguard, strode in with her usual imposing presence, her mechanical arm glinting gold beneath her cloak. On the other side, Councilor Shoola of Piltover approached in measured steps, dressed in ceremonial white trimmed with deep violet, her golden badge gleaming against the folds of her robe.

They each carried a golden ceremonial bin—heavy, ornate, and engraved with the entwined emblems of both cities. Four more were brought forward by aides and placed in a line beneath the central arch of the Bridge of Progress. Six in total, representing the six districts most affected during the war with Noxus. Two years ago, these bins had been salvaged from the wreckage of the Peace Accord Hall—transformed now into sacred vessels of mourning.

Ekko stepped forward first, reaching into his pocket for the small strip of paper he’d prepared. His handwriting was sharp, uneven—“Powder / Jinx.” He held it for a second longer than necessary, then gently dropped it into the bin nearest him. The paper fell silently into the golden basin, joining countless others.

Vi followed, pulling her own slip of paper from her jacket. “Powder,” it read, clean and simple. Her fingers brushed the rim of the bin as she let it go. Her eyes lingered, hard and wet with memory.

Caitlyn came last, composed but visibly solemn. She held her paper delicately, her name written in flowing Piltover script: “Cassandra / Mother.” The letters seemed to shimmer faintly in the candlelight before disappearing into the pile.

Around them, others followed suit—Zaunites, Piltovans, veterans, survivors, children, and elders. Some cried. Some remained quiet. Each slip of paper was a name, a ghost, a wound.

When the last of the names had been placed into the bins, Sevika and Shoola stepped forward together. The rivalry between their cities was old and bitter—but in this moment, they stood as one.

Sevika spoke first, her gravel-toned voice carrying across the hush of the bridge:

“Two years ago, we bled together. We fought off a force that threatened to swallow us whole. We lost family, friends, and futures we’d never get to see. But we held the line. Not as Piltovans. Not as Zaunites. As survivors .”

Shoola followed, her voice clear, resonant, and sharp with emotion:

“The war with Noxus was not just a battle of arms, but a battle for the soul of our cities. We burned in their fires. But we rose from the ash. Today, we honor those we lost—not to hold onto grief, but to let it rise, and in doing so, let them rise.”

The crowd stood still as the two councilors each took up long ceremonial spears, the ends wrapped in soaked cloth. They turned toward the twin torches lit on either side of the bridge and dipped the tips into the flames. The fire caught instantly, blazing bright against the grey sky.

Then, with slow, deliberate movements, they stepped forward and pressed the burning tips into the center of the golden bins.

The paper didn’t simply burn—it lifted.

Like it had been waiting for release, the fire swept upward in spiraling columns. Embers rose into the air, glowing like fireflies, carrying names skyward on trails of golden smoke. Whispers turned to gasps as the flames danced higher, illuminating faces turned upward in awe.

Ekko watched the ember that carried Powder / Jinx rise the highest.

It flickered, hesitated, then disappeared into the clouds.

Vi reached over and clasped his hand. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

Caitlyn stood at their side, eyes closed for a breath—her face calm, centered. Her mother’s name had been released. So had hers.

All around them, a moment of peace bloomed—not the kind born from triumph, but from remembrance . From unity. From the stillness after the storm.

As the last embers vanished into the mist, the bells at the far end of the bridge rang once. A low, sonorous toll.

It echoed down into Zaun. Up into Piltover.

And for a moment—just a fleeting one—the cities breathed as one.

Then, all of a sudden, Ekko’s breath caught.

At first, it was subtle—just a shift in posture, his shoulders rising a bit too high, his eyes darting upward toward a single ember that lingered longer than the rest. Then his lungs refused to draw a full breath, and a tremor crawled down his spine like cold oil.

He clutched the railing beside him.

The ember danced in the sky, twisting in the breeze, glowing like a fading memory. His heart pounded. A rush of blood filled his ears, drowning out the bells, the murmurs, the sound of Vi saying something he couldn’t register. His breaths came short and fast, ragged. Each inhale sharper than the last.

A haunting memory surged forward and flashed before his eyes. One he didn’t want to remember but it’s always in his mind.

2 years ago, 3 days before the battle against Noxus

Ekko tumbled through the white void, his body pulled in all directions—unmade, then remade. The sensation was unbearable, like his atoms were unraveling only to be stitched back together by a seamstress with shaking hands. Sound came in shards. Light split across his vision like fractured glass. And then, gravity snapped back into place. He landed hard, boots skidding across cold metal.

He was back. But not quite.

The cavern was silent, impossibly vast. A deep hollow opened beneath him, the bottom swallowed by endless black. Rusted gears spun slowly overhead, groaning like dying titans. Dim violet light bled through cracks in the rock above, casting shadows that twisted and moved on their own.

It was Powder’s hideout—but it felt wrong. Hollowed. Like the memory had decayed over time.

Then he saw her.

She stood on the curved blade of a massive rusted propeller, teetering above the abyss. Her stance was casual, almost lazy, both hands cradling a grenade with the pin already halfway loose. Her hair, once long and wild, had been roughly chopped to her shoulders. Uneven. Like she’d done it herself in a mirror smeared with tears.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared into the void as though waiting for it to blink back.

What happened to her? Ekko thought. His chest tightened. He hadn’t seen her—since their fight on the bridge. The last time he'd looked into her eyes, they’d been blue. This time… they were glowing pink . Laced with shimmer. Tainted.

He took a slow, careful step forward, his boots making no sound on the corroded platform.

Then— click.

She pulled the pin.

The explosion tore through her like a flash of lightning. Her body vanished in the shockwave. Ekko screamed, reaching for the Z-drive instinctively. He yanked the cord.

Time fractured.

Snap.

She was there again, the grenade cradled in her hands, as if nothing had happened.

"Wait!" he called out, breathless.

Her head jerked slightly. Her eyes slid sideways, catching him standing at the edge of the fan blade. This time, she saw him.

Her eyes widened for a split second. Pink shimmer reflected the low light. Too bright. Too far gone.

Ekko lifted his hand, palm open, fingers trembling.

"I just want to talk to you."

Jinx’s voice came sharp, guarded. “Get out of here, Ekko.”

He took another step forward. “I just—”

Click.
The pin came free.

The explosion ripped through the air again.

Snap.
Rewind. His vision blurred from the strain.

Again. Same moment.

“I just want to talk to you, Pow—”
He caught himself, winced. “Jinx.”

That name hit differently now.

She gave him a long, unreadable stare. Then pulled the pin again.

Boom.

Snap.
Rewind. His muscles ached. His head throbbed. Blood trickled down his forehead from a cut above his brow—damage that didn’t heal between loops.

He gasped, staggered slightly, and grabbed the nearby railing to steady himself.

“Always a dance with you,” he muttered, trying to sound light, though his voice cracked under the weight of exhaustion.

She didn’t pull the pin this time.

Her eyes—wild, flickering with that corrupted pink—were fixed on him. Not scanning the abyss. Him.

“I think I’m just gonna sit here a minute,” Ekko said, dropping to the cold platform beside the railing. He let his legs dangle over the edge of the pit. “You know. Catch my breath.”

Still, she said nothing. Just watched. Like she was realising that he was actually there.

The silence pressed between them, heavy with history and hurt.

“See if I can talk an old friend out of blowing us up,” Ekko said, forcing a chuckle that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Jinx stared at the grenade nestled in her palm like it was a piece of her soul—fragile, dangerous, and far too familiar. Her fingers trembled ever so slightly. Then she whispered, “I’m tired of talking.”

And just like that—she let herself fall.

Her body tipped forward and vanished over the edge, swallowed by the abyss beneath.

“No!” Ekko shouted, his voice cracking with panic.

He didn’t hesitate. His hand flew to the Z-drive at his waist and yanked the chain hard.

Snap.
Time stuttered. Reality split at the seams. The cavern pulsed in reverse like it was gasping for breath. The moment unraveled, then rewound with a sound like thunder rolling in reverse.

Then she was back— she was there.

Standing on the propeller once more, the grenade untouched in her hand.

But this time, her eyes were locked on his. The fall hadn’t happened, but somehow… a part of her remembered.

So did he.

Ekko’s chest rose and fell like he’d just sprinted a marathon. He didn’t waste a second.

“You know,” he began, his voice low, raw, “I learned from someone…”

Jinx tilted her head, eyes narrowing, confused. Her grip on the grenade relaxed slightly.

“ Very special…,” he continued, stepping forward slowly, cautiously—like approaching a wounded animal, or a memory too fragile to touch. “That no matter what happened in the past—” he paused, eyes glassy, “—it’s never too late to build something new.”

The words hovered between them like dust in the low light.

Jinx’s gaze drifted downward, catching the flicker of blue light on Ekko’s waist. The Z-drive. The thing that brought him here again and again. A gift and a curse. A second chance that wouldn’t last forever.

Ekko saw her looking.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t guard it.

He simply followed her gaze, then looked back up into her eyes. “Someone worth building it for,” he said softly.

There was no arrogance in his voice. No demand. Just truth. Unvarnished and fragile.

Jinx looked up slowly. Her eyes were wide now—not with fear, but with something more complicated. Recognition. Her lips parted slightly, as if a word might form but never did.

She searched his face like she was trying to find the lie.

But there wasn’t one.

And for the first time in what felt like years, she saw something in Ekko that wasn’t pity. It wasn’t regret or guilt or anger.

It was hope .

And it terrified her.

The grenade shook slightly in her hand.

“I don’t… I don’t know how,” she said finally, barely louder than a breath. Her voice cracked like glass.

Ekko didn’t move closer. He just stood there, steady, letting her say it.

“I don’t know how to be anything else. Other than a… Jinx .”

“You don’t have to know,” Ekko said, “Not right now. You just have to try.”

Jinx blinked hard, tears fighting to surface, as if her body was rebelling against the idea of vulnerability. She clenched the grenade tighter—then looser.

The glow in her eyes flickered.

Ekko stayed quiet. He knew one wrong word could shatter everything.

Jinx looked away, down at the abyss once more.

“But what if I mess it all up again?” she whispered.

Ekko stepped forward, just a little. “Then I’ll be there to help fix it.”

Her breath caught.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full of tension, of emotion too big to name, of years neither of them could take back.

And slowly… Jinx lifted her hand.

The grenade trembled in her palm.

Ekko moved slowly, carefully—like one wrong breath might shatter the moment entirely. Every instinct in him screamed to hesitate, to calculate, to protect himself. But some part of him—a part deeper than memory—knew that hesitation could cost them both everything.

His left hand reached out, trembling but deliberate, and gently wrapped around her hands—still clinging to the grenade. Her fingers twitched under his touch, tense and ready to pull the pin again, but he didn’t let go. He didn't force her hands open. He simply held it—firm, warm, human .

Then, with infinite caution, he stepped closer and brought his right arm around her shoulder. The motion was slow enough to allow her to bolt, to scream, to strike. But she didn’t move. Not yet.

His arm settled across her shoulders, draping lightly but securely, until she was half turned toward him. His chest met her back, and for a heartbeat, everything went still.

Her breath caught in her throat like a blade pressed flat across her windpipe. Her muscles tensed—shoulders tight, jaw locked, heart pounding against his arm like a caged thing.

Ekko leaned his forehead down to rest gently beside her temple, the cut on his brow still bleeding, leaving a faint red smear near her cheek.

“I got you,” he whispered. Not a command. Not a plea. Just a truth.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. For a long, aching moment, she stood frozen in his hold, like she hadn’t been touched like this in years—maybe ever, not like this. Not by someone who saw her.

Then… slowly… the tremble in her arms eased. Her grip on the grenade loosened—not fully, not yet, but just enough to show she wasn’t going to pull the pin. Not this time.

Jinx leaned back, the tension melting in tiny increments. Her spine curved into him, her head tipping back just slightly, resting against his collarbone. Her breath came out in a shaky exhale, like she’d been holding it for an entire lifetime.

And then—barely there, fleeting as starlight—a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Not wide. Not manic. Not twisted like the mask she usually wore.

A real smile. Fragile. Tired.

Ekko closed his eyes. He didn’t say a word. He just held her, his hand still over hers, the grenade pressed gently between their palms—no longer a threat, but a memory of one.

And for the first time in a long, long while…

They both stood still.

Together.

The Present 

 Ekko’s knees buckled slightly, and Vi caught his arm before he could fall completely. Her voice pierced through the fog.

“Ekko. Hey. Breathe. Look at me. Look at me. ”

His eyes snapped toward her. Her face was older now—weathered by battle and grief—but those same eyes, the ones that used to chase Powder across rooftops, anchored him.

Caitlyn was already moving, hand at his back, grounding him with practiced calm. “He’s dissociating. Slow breaths. Follow mine.”

He didn’t want to fall apart—not here, not in front of everyone—but the memory had wrapped itself around his lungs like a vine. He clenched his jaw, eyes glistening, and shook his head as if trying to shake it all loose.

“I didn’t want to remember that,” he rasped out. “Not now… not like this…”

Vi’s grip tightened on his arm, not to restrain, but to remind him he wasn’t alone.

“You’re okay,” she said, her voice low and steady. “You’re safe. That moment’s gone.”

But it wasn’t.
Not for him.
Not entirely.

Ekko took one long, shaky breath, then another. Slowly, the image of the burning sky began to fade. The ember that had triggered it flickered once more, then vanished into the grey above.

He closed his eyes and exhaled.

And this time, he let it go.

Ekko walked back into the undercity, the air thick with that familiar blend of rust, steam, and memories. Zaun was alive in its own way—pipes groaned under pressure, fans whirred overhead, and neon signs flickered in rhythm with the city's heartbeat. The green haze that hung over the streets caught in the corners of his vision like ghosts refusing to fade.

As he passed through narrow alleys and twisting corridors, the voice returned.

“So… are we going home?”

Her tone carried that insufferable, familiar teasing edge —part mischief, part challenge, as if she already knew the answer but enjoyed tugging on the threads of his resolve.

Ekko didn’t respond right away. He kept his eyes forward, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, boots splashing lightly through puddles that never seemed to dry. It wasn’t until he reached the walkway that split toward his workshop that he spoke.

“No. I need to go somewhere else first.”

“Where are we going?” she asked again, her voice lighter this time—almost sing-song, like a child pretending not to know the rules of a game she invented.

He sighed, the kind of sigh that sounded like it had been building for days.
“ You know where we’re going. You’re in my head, remember?”

The voice laughed.
“I do. But I want to hear you say it.”

She was mocking him, but it wasn’t cruel. It was... her. The way Powder used to prod and pull at him until he gave in. The same way Jinx used to test the limits of everyone around her.

Ekko shook his head, jaw tight, but he didn’t argue. He just kept walking.

The streets of Zaun blurred around him. He passed abandoned vendors, faded murals of resistance, and the blackened skeletons of places that used to mean something. The flickering green light reflected in puddles that mirrored a city both vibrant and scarred.

And then, he reached it.

The burnt ruins of the Last Drop stood like a half-forgotten monument. Its twisted steel ribs jutted into the air like fractured bones, and the faded scent of smoke still clung to the stones, even after two years. Ekko stood there for a moment, just staring—memories rising like smoke from the ruins.

He took a slow breath, then made his way around back, where a rusted metal staircase clung to the building’s spine. Each step groaned beneath his weight, but he climbed steadily.

At the top, he stopped.

The rooftop view opened up before him—the Piltover skyline stretched across the horizon, sharp and beautiful in the dying light. The ruins of the Hexgates loomed in the distance, still fractured and cold. Spires reached upward like desperate fingers, with the council tower far away like a silent judge.

But Ekko’s eyes weren’t on the skyline.

He walked halfway across the rooftop and turned left.

It was still there.

Untouched.

His memorial to Jinx.

A mural he’d painted with hands that trembled and eyes that burned. A portrait not of the chaos, not of the monster others remembered—but of the girl he’d known, even until the very end.

She stood in profile, painted on the curved side of a rusted ventilation shaft, her blue hair cropped short , save for the bang he’d refused to cut—with a streak of violet, just as she’d asked. Two pink lines were painted neatly beneath her eyes, like war paint, almost like tears. Her tank top was makeshift , bandages wrapped tight around her frame, and she wore black combat pants and worn boots that reached to her knees.

The rest of her was a canvas of madness and beauty —paint splatters in neon greens, purples, and oranges adorned her skin like scars of a life lived too fast, too bright. Her smile—painted deliberately—was crooked. Half-defiant. Half-sad.

Ekko stood in front of it for a long time.

“You left this here for me?”

The voice was quieter now. Almost human.

He didn’t answer. Not yet. His eyes were locked on the mural like he was waiting for it to move.

Finally, he exhaled. “I come up here to remember who you were… before. Before everything burned.”

“I was never just Powder or Jinx. I was both. You knew that.”

“I did. I still do.”

He took a seat on an old crate across from the mural. From here, it was like she was looking past him—past Zaun, past the skyline, toward a horizon they never got to reach together.

“Why do you come here, Ekko? You know it doesn’t change anything.”

“I don’t come to change anything,” he said softly. “I come to forgive myself.”

The wind picked up, tugging at the edges of his jacket. Far below, Zaun went on—people surviving, creating, rebuilding.

“Do you think I’d forgive you?”
The voice wasn’t mocking this time. It was raw. Wounded.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I think some part of her would.”

And as the last light of day faded behind Piltover’s broken skyline, Ekko sat in silence beneath the weight of memory, surrounded by a city that refused to die and a mural of a girl who burned too bright for either world to hold.

Ekko crouched in front of the mural, fingers laced together, elbows resting on his knees. The soft hum of Zaun’s underbelly buzzed in the distance—generators thrumming, exhaust vents sighing, a lone hovercar gliding far below. But up here, it was quiet. Isolated. Like time had chosen to slow down, just for him.

He looked up at her painted eyes.

The colors had faded slightly since he’d first laid them down, but they still watched him —mischievous, sharp, wary. Jinx’s stare had always pierced through the noise, even when she was falling apart.

He took a breath.
“Hey.”

His voice cracked slightly as it left him, and he chuckled under his breath at how awkward he sounded.

“I know you’re not really here,” he said, leaning forward, lowering his tone like he was confessing to something sacred. “I know this isn’t you. It’s paint. It’s… just something I made to feel closer to you.”

He paused, chewing on the silence. The mural didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Of course it didn’t.

Still, he kept going.
“I went to the ceremony today.”

His eyes shifted downward, searching the cracks in the rooftop.

“They did this whole thing with fire and paper. Council members gave speeches. You’d hate it. Way too organized. Way too… polished. Piltover-style grief. Not your kind of party.”

He smiled faintly, but it didn’t last.
“I wrote your name. Powder slash Jinx. Couldn’t pick one. Felt like leaving either out would be lying. But maybe you’d be mad at that too.”

He looked back up at her.

His voice grew quieter.
“I just… I hoped that maybe, if I said your name out loud one more time, you’d come back. Just for a second.”

He waited.

The wind answered first, brushing his curls from his face. A creak of metal far below echoed faintly, and somewhere distant, a Zaunite horn blared across the district.

But from her—nothing.

No voice. No movement. No sign.

Until her voice— the voice in his head —spoke up again, sharp and smug like always.

“Ugh, that sounds like the most boring ceremony in the world. Fire and speeches? Pass. If I had to sit through that, I’d blow something up just to feel something.”

Ekko didn’t flinch. By now, he was used to the phantom presence—half memory, half ghost, entirely her .

“I figured,” he muttered, a dry smile tugging at his lips. “That’s why I didn’t invite you.”

“You wrote both names?” she asked, more softly this time.

“I did.”

“That’s cheating.”

“Maybe. But you were always both. I couldn’t unmake one to honor the other. That wouldn’t be fair.”

A beat. Then:
“You really think I’d be mad at you?”

Ekko looked away. “I don’t know. Maybe not mad. Just… disappointed.”

“For surviving?”

He didn’t answer right away. The silence was heavier this time. His fingers fidgeted with the fabric of his gloves, as though holding onto something invisible.

“I didn’t save you,” he whispered. “That’s what eats at me. I should’ve been able to stop what happened.”

“You always thought you were supposed to be the hero,” the voice said softly. “But you forgot, I never wanted saving.”

Ekko’s eyes welled before he could stop them. He blinked fast, refusing to let them fall.

He stood up slowly and stepped closer to the mural. The paint had started to peel slightly near her boots. He knelt and began gently fixing a chipped corner with a small tube of pigment he kept in his jacket pocket. It was the same color he’d used for her hair—deep blue with violet undertones.

As he painted, he murmured, “I know you wouldn’t want saving. But I still wish I could’ve changed something. Just one moment. One breath.”

The voice didn’t reply this time.

Only the wind responded, carrying the scent of damp metal and ozone across the rooftop. The city hummed and hissed below, like it always did.

But up here, Ekko stayed kneeling by the mural, brushing color back into the fragments of a memory. It wasn’t much—but it was something.

A heartbeat in paint.

A goodbye he could never quite finish.

Ekko stayed a while longer.

The skyline of Piltover still gleamed through the lingering mist, its lights distant and cold like stars he couldn’t reach. Eventually, he stood, tucking his pigment tube back into his jacket. He gave the mural one final look, nodded once—like sealing an unspoken promise—and turned away.

The climb down the rusted staircase behind the ruins of the Last Drop was quieter than before. No echoing voices. No footsteps but his own. The city had returned to its rhythm—Zaun’s heartbeat a dull, constant thrum beneath his boots.

Streetlights buzzed overhead, flickering through patches of smog. Kids darted past, chasing each other with LED sparklers, their laughter cutting through the gloom. Old pipes hissed steam along the alley walls, and the ever-present scent of oil and ozone clung to everything. Life had moved on—but Ekko hadn't. Not really.

As he made his way back through the tangle of alleys, the weight of the ceremony, of the mural, of her , pressed harder on his shoulders.

By the time he reached his shop, he didn’t bother locking the door behind him. The rain had finally stopped, but the sound of dripping water still echoed from overhead pipes. The fluorescent lights in his ceiling flickered to life as he stepped inside.

The workshop was just as he’d left it—half-finished blueprints on the walls, tools scattered across the workbench, and the small device he’d been obsessing over still sitting dead center.

Ekko rolled up his sleeves, his expression sharpening with focus.

He grabbed the device, turned it over, tightened the bolt that had given him trouble earlier—this time with precision, not frustration. Then he adjusted the energy regulator and installed a new actuator joint. The internal core hummed softly. The design had once been meant to help the elderly walk , but Ekko had reshaped it—streamlined the movement system, added support dampeners, reinforced the stabilizers. Now it remembered how to walk for you, gently correcting posture and stride like an invisible partner guiding you through time.

An hour passed. Then two.

Finally, with a quiet click and a slow whirr of energy, the machine came to life.

It stood on its own. Balanced. Stable. Quietly glowing with soft blue light.

Ekko leaned back in his chair, sweat clinging to his brow, his eyes fixed on the gentle pulses coming from the device. He didn’t smile. Not quite. But he felt something— release , maybe.

Then her voice cut through the silence, softer than before.

“You really finished it?”

Ekko didn’t look up. He was used to the voice by now.
“Yeah. Finally.”

“You always do that. You obsess. You break yourself to fix something broken.”

“I had to,” he said. “It helped.”

There was a pause. A strange, still quietness before her voice returned, a little more hesitant this time.

“What if I’m not gone?”

That made him stop.

His hands froze. His breathing caught. He slowly turned toward the far wall, as if looking for her.

But there was no one there.

“Don’t do that,” he said, voice sharp. “Don’t pretend .”

“I’m not pretending. I’m asking.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, rubbing his temples like he could massage the ache out of his memories.

“She’s gone,” he said quietly. “I was there. The explosion. The tower.”

“But what if I wasn’t in it?”

Ekko squeezed his eyes shut.

“She wouldn’t have stayed hidden for two years. Not Jinx. She would’ve come back. Burned down the whole city just to say hi.”

“Maybe she’s afraid.”

Ekko opened his eyes. The device pulsed gently on the table, a steady rhythm that matched the tremor in his chest.

“Afraid of what?” he whispered.

“Of who she was becoming.”

Ekko didn’t answer.

He just stared at the machine he’d built—something meant to help someone walk again. Something that defied time, even just for a moment.

And deep down, he wondered if that’s what he had been doing all along.

Trying to build something that could bring her back.

Not just the machine.
Everything.
The mural. The ritual. The workshop. The voice.

Trying to carry someone forward who had never stopped running away.

Ekko stared at the glowing device, its gentle hum like a heartbeat echoing in the quiet. The last bolt he had tightened felt heavier now, like it had sealed more than just a machine—like it had locked away the part of him that still dared to believe .

He stood, slowly, his chair scraping the floor behind him as he pushed it back. With deliberate care, he powered the device down and placed it inside the reinforced drawer beneath his bench. The light faded. The hum stopped.

Silence.

Ekko leaned against the workbench, head bowed, both hands gripping the edge as if it might anchor him to the moment. His breath came slow, but each inhale felt like dragging rust through his lungs.

“Maybe she’s afraid,” the voice had said.

But that voice wasn’t her —not really. It was the echo of what he remembered. A reconstruction. A ghost cobbled together from too many sleepless nights and a thousand regrets.

He knew that.

Deep down, beneath all the inventions and distractions, he knew she was gone.

“She’s not out there,” he said aloud, more to himself than to the voice. “If she was… she would’ve made noise by now.”

He could almost see it—Powder, Jinx , standing on a rooftop somewhere, firing flare rounds into the sky, drawing crude faces on the sides of Piltover’s buildings with stolen paint, rigging fireworks to hextech circuits just for the chaos of it.

She didn’t disappear.

She never disappeared .

Unless…

Unless the person who might’ve returned wasn’t Jinx anymore.

Or wasn’t Powder either.

Maybe there was nothing left of either name to come back.

He turned away from the bench and walked to the edge of his shop’s open balcony. The city stretched out beneath him—Zaun breathing through vents and turbines, Piltover gleaming beyond the haze. The ruins of the Hexgates still stood in the distance, a jagged reminder of all they’d lost.

The wind picked up. A soft breeze curled around him, tugging at the hem of his tank top, whispering like a voice carried too far from its source.

He let the breeze wash over him. Let it whisper. Let it lie.

Because if he admitted—truly admitted—she was gone, then that meant a part of him had to be gone too.

And if she wasn’t gone?

If, by some impossible truth, she had survived and just… left?

Then that would mean she’d chosen not to come back.

Ekko’s throat tightened. He clenched his jaw.

“No,” he murmured. “She didn’t leave me. She didn’t .”

But the voice didn’t answer.

For once, she stayed quiet.

And that silence hurt more than anything she could’ve said.

After a long moment, Ekko turned back inside. He switched off the lights, one by one, until only the faint glow from the undercity outside lit the edges of the shop. Then he sat by the door, back against the wall, knees pulled close to his chest.

No more work tonight.

No more ghosts.

Just the hum of Zaun’s machines and the ache of everything he couldn’t fix.

Morning came slowly in Zaun.

It didn’t arrive with warm golden light like it did in Piltover. Down here, dawn seeped in through broken vents and grimy skylights—filtered, fractured, grey. The air still held the chill of night, and the machines that powered the undercity throbbed with their ever-present rhythm. Life didn’t pause in Zaun; it just shifted to the next breath, the next step, the next hour.

Ekko hadn’t slept.

He sat slumped against the wall of his workshop, still in yesterday’s clothes, eyes heavy but wide open—staring at nothing. The voice hadn’t come back. Not since last night. And that silence pressed in on him like the weight of a collapsing ceiling.

A quiet knock rapped against the metal door. Not a customer’s knock. Not someone desperate to trade gears or scrap.

A familiar rhythm.

He didn’t move.

The knock came again—firmer, followed by a voice muffled by the thick steel.

“Ekko? It’s me.”

Vi.

He let out a long breath. Of course she came. She always did.

He stood slowly, joints stiff, and dragged himself to the door. With a clank of rusted locks, he pulled it open.

Vi stood there with Caitlyn beside her. Both still in their ceremony clothes, jackets pulled tight against the morning chill. Vi’s eyes immediately scanned him—messy hair, dark circles under his eyes, hands still slightly stained with pigment and oil.

“You didn’t sleep, did you?” Vi asked quietly.

Ekko shook his head, stepping aside without a word.

They came in, shutting the door behind them. Caitlyn glanced around the shop, noting the powered-down device on the bench, the untouched cup of water on the table, the silence.

Vi turned to him. “You scared the hell out of us yesterday.”

“I’m fine,” Ekko said quickly. Too quickly.

“No, you’re not,” Caitlyn said gently, crossing her arms. “You locked up. Your breathing changed. You looked like you were about to fall.”

Ekko didn’t respond. He walked to the workbench, brushing his fingers over the surface like he needed something solid to focus on.

Vi stepped closer. “Was it a memory?”

He nodded, barely.

Caitlyn softened her voice. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Ekko let out a laugh—but there was no humor in it. “What’s left to talk about? She’s gone. I’ve said everything I needed to say.”

Vi tilted her head. “You sure about that?”

He looked up, eyes distant but sharp. “You ever feel like you’re talking to someone who isn’t there… so often that you start to forget they aren’t ?”

Vi didn’t answer. She just walked over and leaned against the workbench beside him.

“She never really leaves, does she?” Ekko said quietly. “Not in here.” He tapped his head. “Not after everything.”

“I know,” Vi said, her voice like a warm hand on a wound. “I still hear her too. Still see her. Every day.”

Caitlyn stepped forward. “What happened at the ceremony—it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone there lost someone.”

Ekko shook his head. “But not everyone hears them like I do. Not everyone still talks to them.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Vi put a hand on his shoulder, grounding him.

“We’re not here to pull you out,” she said. “We’re here to stand with you while you climb out yourself. However long that takes.”

Ekko closed his eyes for a moment, let that sit in his chest.

“I finished the project,” he said eventually. “The mobility aid for that old man. But I added more than he asked for.”

Caitlyn smiled gently. “Of course you did.”

“I don’t even know why I care so much,” he muttered.

Vi shrugged. “Because fixing things is how you survive. You can’t fix everything —but you try. That’s what makes you who you are.”

Ekko looked at her. “Yeah. But I couldn’t fix her .”

Vi’s face fell slightly. “Neither could I.”

The three of them stood there in the soft undercity light, surrounded by blueprints, memories, and the pieces of a world still healing.

Then Caitlyn looked around. “You need food. And rest.”

Vi smirked. “And a shower.”

Ekko actually chuckled—just once. But it was real.

“Alright. Fine. You two win.”

Caitlyn picked up the unused cup on the table. “Let us stick around for a bit. We’ll cook. You… sit.”

Ekko didn’t resist.

He slumped onto the couch in the corner as Vi began rummaging through the shelves for anything edible. Caitlyn followed, making quiet conversation.

And for the first time in weeks, Ekko didn’t feel like he was drowning .

He still felt the ache. Still heard the voice. But it wasn’t louder than the people who had stayed.

By late afternoon, the shop had warmed with the soft glow of Zaun’s artificial sunlight. After sharing a modest meal and some reluctant rest, Ekko stood again—taller this time, more present. The ache hadn’t left, but it no longer weighed on his shoulders like a shroud.

The device was ready. Sleek in its design, compact yet sturdy, with reinforced joints and shock-absorbing pivots. Ekko had added a lightstep core—his own invention—that slightly adjusted the user’s balance with each step, giving the illusion and feel of lighter legs. More than just a walking aid—it restored dignity .

He packed it carefully, wrapping the polished handles with cloth to protect them from the grime of the streets. Caitlyn helped him fasten the straps on the case, while Vi scribbled something onto a note and slid it into his pocket.

“In case you forget that you matter,” she said, without explaining more.

Ekko smirked, shouldering the case.

The walk was quiet. The path took him deeper into the undercity, past tunnels carved out by decades of industry and war, past homes patched together with steel, warmth, and memory. People nodded to him as he passed—some with curiosity, others with respect. The Kid Who Fought Time. The Leader Who Never Asked for Power.

Finally, he arrived at a low-lying unit tucked between two exhaust towers. A faded mural of a Zaunite serpent adorned the wall, coiled and protective. He knocked.

The door creaked open, revealing a small, hunched man with clouded eyes and a crooked smile. His name was Corin—an old tinker, once an engineer in Piltover before an explosion took most of his mobility and his license. He had retreated to Zaun, where he spent his days telling children stories about machines that could sing.

Ekko held out the case. “I finished it.”

Corin blinked, then smiled as if Ekko had handed him a second lifetime.

“You made it better, didn’t you?” he asked, running a hand over the contours of the frame.

Ekko gave a small nod. “It adjusts to your gait. Helps lift some of the strain off your knees. You’ll feel it after a few steps.”

Corin chuckled, a raspy, sputtering thing that still carried warmth. “You Zaunites never just fix something. You rebirth it.”

Ekko knelt beside him, helping him strap in and showing him the pulse toggles. “You walk with it. It listens. Adapts.”

Corin stood—slowly, shakily—but taller than he had in years. He took one step… then another… and laughed aloud.

“I remember this feeling.”

Ekko’s chest tightened—not from pain, but from something quieter. Steadier. He watched the old man shuffle forward, lighter with every step.

“It’s not much,” Ekko said.

Corin turned. “Kid… it’s everything.”

Ekko stayed for a few more minutes, making sure the device responded properly. As he turned to leave, Corin called after him.

“Who was she?”

Ekko paused at the threshold, surprised.

“The girl you built this in memory of.”

He turned slightly. “You knew?”

“I know that look in your eyes. I saw it in mine when I lost my son. Grief doesn’t just hollow you out—it carves room for the impossible.”

Ekko nodded once. “Her name was Powder.”

Corin smiled gently. “Then Powder walks with me now. Thank you.”

Ekko left in silence.

The streets felt softer on the way back. The hum of Zaun was still there—loud, layered, alive—but in its rhythm he felt something else too. Not closure, but purpose. Not healing, but motion.

And for Ekko… motion had always been the first step back.

The streets of Zaun were bathed in a dim, copper glow—the kind that never quite felt like sunset, but hinted at it. Overhead, the pipes groaned and hissed as pressure valves released and exhaust filtered up through industrial stacks. The city was never quiet, but it had rhythms. And Ekko walked to them now, the weight of the empty case in his hand and the heavier burden in his chest.

Then came the voice again, like breath across the back of his mind.

“You feel better now? Fixed something… saved a life… did the whole hero routine.”

He didn’t answer at first. His footsteps echoed through a narrow, rusted corridor of crumbling concrete and metal railings. He turned a corner. The undercity always changed—expanded or collapsed into itself—but somehow, he always found the way.

“You’re not gonna talk to me now?” she teased.

Ekko exhaled slowly. “What do you want me to say?”

“That you miss me.”

He clenched his jaw. “You know I do.”

There was a pause. Then the voice returned—this time softer, more curious.

“If you had proof I was alive… something real, something that couldn’t be just in your head—would you go after it?”

He stopped walking.

The thought had gripped him before. In dreams. In half-slept whispers. In static-filled radio signals he sometimes hoped were messages. Every time he pushed it aside. Because hope hurt more than loss.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because you’re already looking. Every time you build something, every time you walk past the ruins, every time you hear a bang in the alley and spin around… you're already chasing ghosts.”

He didn’t respond.

“So what if I’m not just a ghost?” she asked, her voice lower now. Almost… wondering.

“I don’t know,” Ekko murmured. “I don’t know if I’d chase you… or if I’m just afraid to find out I’ve been wrong this whole time.”

The voice fell silent.

As he rounded the last turn, the shop came into view—his little haven carved into the ribs of Zaun. A scrap of light filtered under the door. That wasn’t right. He had turned everything off.

He pushed the door open cautiously—and found Vi sitting at his workbench, flipping through one of his sketchpads. Caitlyn leaned against a storage shelf, her coat slung over one shoulder, a small tin of Zaunite tea steaming on the table between them.

They both looked up when he entered.

“You took your time,” Vi said, casually closing the sketchbook and setting it down like she hadn’t just been thumbing through his most private thoughts.

Ekko blinked. “You’re still here?”

“We figured you’d try to sneak off somewhere else and sleep on another rooftop,” Caitlyn said, smiling faintly. “So we stayed.”

Ekko sighed and dropped the empty case near the door. “He loved it. The old man. Said he remembered what it felt like to walk again.”

Vi stood and stretched. “Sounds like you gave someone a piece of their life back.”

“I’m just tired,” Ekko muttered, avoiding their eyes as he stepped toward the back of the shop. “That’s all.”

Vi watched him for a second. “You sure?”

Ekko hesitated in the doorway to the back room. He thought about the voice. About her question.

Would he follow the thread… if there was one?

He looked back at Vi and Caitlyn—two people who had lost the same person he had, and who were still here.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly.

Caitlyn tilted her head. “Don’t know what?”

Ekko just shook his head, brushing past the workbench and flipping the main switch. The lights dimmed as the shop powered down.

“Long day,” he said simply. “I’ll tell you if I figure it out.”

Vi looked like she wanted to press, but Caitlyn gently put a hand on her arm. “Let him breathe.”

Ekko sat down heavily in the chair near his workbench, rubbing at his temple.

“You’re not done with me,” the voice whispered.

He didn’t answer.

But deep down, he knew she was right. Ekko stood up from the chair and walked to his room.

Ekko stepped into his room and closed the door gently behind him. The soft click of the latch echoed louder than it should have. No locks. He never locked it—not from Vi, not from Caitlyn. If something was going to come for him, it would come anyway.

The room was dimly lit by the soft flicker of a dying neon filament near the ceiling. Half-finished devices were scattered on a desk, and scraps of paper with equations and sketches lay in a loose spiral on the floor. A few old photos clung stubbornly to the wall with strips of tarnished adhesive—ghosts in black and white, smiling before they had reasons not to.

He dropped onto the bed with a heavy exhale, the mattress creaking beneath him. His arms rested behind his head, fingers interlaced. His goggles were still on his neck, smudged with oil and dust.

He stared at the ceiling.

Faint rumbles from the city moved through the walls—pipes expanding and contracting, boots echoing on distant catwalks, the constant breath of Zaun. But in that moment, it all faded to a hum.

Then her voice returned.

“So?”

Ekko didn’t respond.

“If you had proof—real proof—that I was still out there… would you go looking for me?”

He shut his eyes, teeth clenched. “You’re not real.”

“Does that matter?”

Silence.

She waited. The voice was never urgent—just there , like a shadow stretched from his own.

“Say it, Ekko.”

He turned on his side, one hand over his face. His breath was slower now, heavier.

“I want to say no,” he whispered. “Because if I say yes… and I go looking… and I don’t find you…” His voice caught in his throat. “Then I’ve lost you again. And I can’t do that. Not again.”

“But if I’m alive—”

“ You’re not! ” he snapped, sitting up suddenly, voice echoing in the small room.

Silence again.

He rubbed his face with his hands, then whispered, softer this time, “You're not.”

But somewhere—deep down in a place he tried not to visit too often—he wasn’t sure.

That was the part that haunted him most.

And the voice, persistent as memory, said only one thing before falling silent again:

“Then why are you still listening?”

The voice was softer now, almost wistful. 

“If I’m gone, why do you still hear me?”

His jaw tensed. He didn’t answer.

“You think I’m just a memory—but you talk to me like I’m more than that. You let me follow you. You want me to.”

Ekko stood suddenly, his feet hitting the floor hard as he paced the small room. “You’re not real,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

“Then why do I feel real to you?”

He stopped at his desk, gripping its edge. His fingers curled around the metal until his knuckles went white.

“Why haven’t you let me go?”

“Because I can’t! ” he shouted, slamming his fist down onto the desk. Pencils rattled, a loose cog fell to the floor and spun in place before tipping over.

His breath came in sharp gasps, his body trembling.

“I can’t let you go,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Because if there’s any chance, even a tiny one—if there’s a single thread left out there, floating in this broken world that leads to you…”

He turned toward the wall, eyes brimming but not falling.

“I’d follow it.”

Silence.

“I don’t care where it takes me. Demacia. Ionia. The other side of Runeterra. If you're out there, somewhere —I’d find you.”

He collapsed back onto the bed, leaning against the wall, chest still rising and falling with the weight of what he’d just said aloud.

And then, softly—almost gently—the voice answered.

“Took you long enough.”

Ekko let out a bitter laugh. Then buried his face in his hands.

He had no proof. No lead. Nothing.

But now… he had the truth.

And that would be enough to break him—or move him.