Chapter Text
Perfect didn’t do her justice, it was too casual, too vague. She was exact. Impeccable. Engineered elegance in human form. Her hair, a deep navy that gleamed like midnight silk, was brushed into a style so precise it seemed criminal to let the wind touch it. The school uniform, pressed to military sharpness, clung to her frame with seamless discipline. Her blazer sat just so, buttons aligned like chess pieces, the Kiramman family crest over her heart shimmering in gold embroidery. A legacy worn like armor.
Her eyes—icy, discerning, relentlessly observant swept the corridor. Nothing escaped their scrutiny. Not the posters curling at the edges on the bulletin board. Not the scuffed baseboard beneath locker row F. And definitely not the wad of gum mashed beneath the third locker on the left. Again.
She stopped, one heeled boot angled slightly outward, like she was ready to pivot into a full-scale investigation.
“Disgusting,” she muttered under her breath, lips barely moving. “Animals.”
Her voice was a blade sharp, controlled, meant to cut ribbons off people, not offer pleasantries. She wasn’t rude. She was efficient.
Students instinctively parted in her path like curtains before royalty. Some nodded in cautious acknowledgment, others kept their eyes trained on the floor, afraid that meeting her gaze might somehow lower their GPA.
“Morning, Caitlyn!” a junior chirped nervously.
She didn’t reply. Didn’t slow her stride. The greeting rolled off her like water on bulletproof glass.
And then the double doors to the left slammed open with a bang that made everyone jump. One hinge screamed in protest.
Sneakers squeaked across the marble. Laughter followed, unfiltered, unbothered, and too loud for the sacred acoustics of Piltover High.
Vi Lanes.
If Caitlyn was order and precision, Vi was chaos wrapped in a crooked grin. She sauntered in like she owned the place, or planned to rob it. Her uniform looked like it had lost a fight with a tumble dryer: tie hanging by a thread, shirt wrinkled and untucked, blazer draped lazily over her shoulder like an afterthought. One combat boot dragged along the tile just to annoy someone, probably Caitlyn. Her hair, a wild riot of reddish-pink curls and a shaved left side, framed a face peppered with bruises and a single bandaid that looked more decorative than medical.
She carried herself like someone who knew how to throw a punch and made peace with the consequences long ago. Like she'd seen the inside of too many fights, too many nights, and liked the view.
Her eyes scanned the crowd with practiced indifference, until they landed on her.
Vi stopped mid-step, one brow arching lazily. “Ugh. Ice Queen.”
Caitlyn froze for half a second. Just long enough for anyone watching closely to catch it.
“Savage,” she replied coolly, barely turning her head. Her tone could've frozen steam.
The air in the hallway shifted. A low, collective inhale. Everyone recognized the routine, like actors waiting for their cue in a play they'd all seen too many times.
Caitlyn and Vi.
Opposites didn’t just attract; sometimes, they collided. Loudly. Frequently. It had started in their first year and hadn’t stopped since. Caitlyn: always front-row, hand raised, answer correct. Vi: back of the room, feet on the desk, smirking like she already knew the ending. Caitlyn led the student council. Vi led detention roll call.
But somehow, their lives ran parallel. Intersecting too often to be coincidence. As if the universe decided it was funny to drop a lightning storm into Caitlyn’s orderly blueprint and watch the sparks fly.
Caitlyn’s jaw tensed as Vi strolled closer, dragging her shadow and defiance like a banner behind her.
“Didn’t expect you today,” Caitlyn said without looking up. “After your… display yesterday.”
Vi grinned. “Didn’t hit that hard. Board’s still standin’, ain’t it?”
“You shattered the janitor’s mop.”
Vi shrugged, completely unbothered. “It had a smug look.”
Caitlyn blinked once. Slowly. “You are—unbelievable.”
Vi leaned in slightly, her grin all teeth and trouble. “And you’re tall. Didn’t ask for a weather update, Kiramman.”
There it was again. That sharp, sparking energy between them. Cold steel meeting kindling.
Caitlyn folded her arms. “Why don’t you vanish into one of those lockers you like to vandalize?”
Vi tilted her head. For a heartbeat, something flickered in her gaze, something quieter, rawer.
“Wish I could.”
The words weren’t loud, but they landed heavy.
Caitlyn’s breath caught. Just briefly. She looked at Vi, really looked, and for once, saw something other than the mess, the noise, the challenge.
But then the school bell rang loud, shrill, merciful.
Vi straightened, her smirk back in full force. She tossed Caitlyn a lazy two-fingered salute as she walked away.
“Later, Princess.”
Caitlyn stood still as the crowd moved around her.
Whatever this was, it was far from over.
Third Period: Literature
Vi slouched in the far back corner of Room 3A like she’d been poured into the seat and left to harden. Her hood was up, shadowing her eyes, one boot kicked forward and the other tucked beneath her. A pencil twirled between her calloused fingers with rhythmic precision, the sharpened point catching the fluorescent light every few spins. She didn’t even seem to be looking at it, but it moved like muscle memory, like she’d been spinning weapons her whole life and this was the closest thing the school allowed.
The whiteboard at the front of the room glared too bright under the flickering lights. Big block letters:
“To be, or not to be” – Hamlet, Act III, Scene I
Underneath:
Existentialism. Mortality. Psychological disintegration. Isolation. Tragedy.
Vi squinted. The words bled together until they looked like old bruises.
She knew what they meant. Of course she did. She read the damn play twice in one night when she couldn’t sleep. Not because she had to, but because Hamlet sounded like someone who looked in the mirror and saw the same dead ends.
But she couldn’t let anyone know that.
Knowing things meant someone would expect more. And expectation? That was just pre-loaded disappointment.
So she played her part.
Bad girl. Rule breaker. Smart enough to be a pain, never smart enough to be taken seriously.
Vi let the pencil drop and caught it before it hit the desk, just for something to do.
The classroom droned on. The teacher Mr. Heimerdinger was going on about soliloquies. Something about interior monologue. Voicing pain. Existential tension.
Vi stared at the back of Caitlyn’s head.
That perfect navy braid. Gleaming under the light like it had been ironed into obedience. Straight posture, pressed collar, shoulders squared like she was always ready to march into war and win it without breaking a sweat.
Even her handwriting was annoyingly neat. Every loop symmetrical. Like she’d trained the ink to behave.
Vi hated it.
Hated her.
Except she didn’t.
And that was the problem.
She couldn’t look at Caitlyn for too long without something twisting low in her chest, like a wound reopening.
She looked anyway.
Caitlyn hadn’t noticed. Or pretended not to. She was writing something down in her literature journal. Probably quoting Hamlet in the original iambic pentameter. Probably had an opinion on the subtext of his grief. Probably had her whole life color-coded and underlined in fountain pen ink.
Vi bit the inside of her cheek.
And then—
“Miss Lanes,” Mr. Heimerdinger voice cracked through the room like a whip. “Since you seem so… absorbed, perhaps you’d like to explain the significance of Hamlet’s monologue in Act III?”
The room shifted. Dozens of heads turned. Someone chuckled under their breath.
Vi’s stomach flipped. Not from fear, she didn’t do fear in public, but from the heat rising behind her ears.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Bought herself a beat by stretching her arms out behind her head with an exaggerated yawn.
Then she smiled.
Slow. Crooked. Dangerous.
“Sure,” she said, leaning back like the desk was a throne. “So, basically, Hamlet’s thinkin’ about whether it's better to die, or to keep living with all the crap life keeps dumping on him. Like, what's worse? Dealin’ with pain and betrayal and all that family mess, or just… poof. Peace out.”
Someone in the front row laughed, unsure if they were allowed to.
Mr. Heimerdinger didn’t interrupt.
Vi twirled the pencil again. “He’s not just bein’ dramatic, though. It’s not like he wants to die. He’s scared. Scared of what comes after. He says somethin’ about the undiscovered country, right? That’s the line. It’s not death he’s afraid of, it’s the not knowing.”
Now the room was dead quiet.
Vi tapped the pencil against her desk, soft. Rhythmic.
“He’s stuck. ‘Cause living hurts, but dying… might hurt worse. So he just… stays where he is. Frozen. Thinkin’. Thinkin’ too much. And it screws him up.”
Silence stretched. Even the overhead lights buzzed a little quieter.
Ms. Heimerdinger blinked, stunned.
“That’s… a very insightful interpretation, Miss Lanes.”
Vi shrugged. “I read it.”
Caitlyn had turned in her seat. Not fully. Just enough to glance back. Her eyes met Vi’s for a fraction of a second. Her face unreadable. Neutral, almost bored, but her eyes…
They weren’t cold.
Not this time.
Vi looked away quickly and dropped the pencil. It hit the floor with a soft clatter, breaking the moment.
Whatever.
Let people be surprised. Let Caitlyn think whatever she wanted. Let them all wonder.
Vi slouched lower in her seat, pulling her hood further over her face like armor.
She didn’t care what they thought.
Except she did.
Especially Caitlyn.
Lunch
The courtyard behind Piltover High was like everything else in the city: engineered to look effortless. Polished stone paths framed manicured hedges, sunlight filtered through wrought iron awnings, and the whole space felt like it was trying too hard to impress. It was the kind of place donors might see in a brochure and think, Ah yes, a refined institution.
But beneath the presentation, it was quiet. Unwatched.
Which made it perfect.
Vi had claimed a bench beneath one of the shaded corners, half-sunken into concrete, half-dripping with rust. The bench creaked when she shifted, but didn’t complain. Nothing out here did. That’s why she liked it.
Her hood was up, casting shadows over her face, earbuds jammed so deep you’d think she was trying to plug her thoughts. A lunch tray sat beside her, untouched, except for the sandwich she was slowly taking apart like it owed her money. Crust first. Then the soggy middle. Then maybe, maybe, the cheese.
The music in her ears didn’t match the look on her face.
Not distorted punk. Not screamo. Not some angry, brain-melting bass track with lyrics that would get her suspended if she quoted them.
It was jazz.
Soft. Wandering. All low horns and sad saxophones, the kind of music that didn’t ask for attention but still got it. Coltrane. Davis. Bill Evans, today. Piano keys like quiet conversations in the dark.
The playlist came from her dad’s old phone, one of the only things she still had of him. Cracked screen, battery held together with tape, but it still played the music he used to hum while cooking.
Vi knew it didn’t match the version of herself she sold to everyone else. The loudmouth. The bruiser. The hallway terror who once headbutted a vending machine until it gave up three Twix bars and a Gatorade.
Jazz didn’t fit that girl.
But it fit her.
The version no one got to see. The one who stayed up too late reading and rereading the same lines in a play about grief and ghosts because something in Hamlet’s voice sounded too familiar. The one who hated mirrors.
Her sandwich peeled apart in her hands like wet cardboard.
She wasn’t hungry.
Her brain was still stuck in third period.
That look.
Caitlyn Kiramman had turned in her seat and, seen her. Not in the usual, annoyed way. Not with that clipped edge in her voice or that arched eyebrow that always screamed you’re exhausting. No. It had been something else.
Surprise.
Real surprise. The kind that made Vi want to punch something, not because she was angry, but because it hurt. That Caitlyn had never expected anything from her beyond trouble. That even someone as smart as Caitlyn hadn’t thought Vi was capable of understanding a dead prince who wanted to disappear.
And yet—
She hadn’t looked smug. Or superior. Just…
Surprised.
Like the world had shifted a few inches to the left and she wasn’t sure how to stand anymore.
Vi had spent all lunch thinking about that damn look. It crawled under her hoodie like static.
The sandwich crust cracked in her grip.
She yanked her earbuds out. The jazz stopped mid-note, the silence that followed too loud, like someone had cut the whole world’s volume and left only her thoughts behind.
Her leg bounced. Her jaw set. Her heart did something weird and twitchy she didn’t appreciate.
She couldn’t name the feeling. She didn’t want to.
Above her, from the second-story library window, Caitlyn watched.
She told herself she wasn’t spying. Observing. That’s what she called it. A habit of discipline. Situational awareness.
But the truth was: her eyes had found Vi the second she entered the courtyard. And they hadn’t left.
Vi sat like a warning sign—hood low, hands restless, a stillness wrapped so tightly around her it looked like it might snap. She didn’t move like a delinquent. Not really. She moved like someone constantly holding themselves together with whatever scraps they had left.
Caitlyn couldn’t hear what Vi was listening to, but she could guess. Something chaotic, probably. Loud, volatile. Lyrics that could peel paint off walls and set off the school’s language filters.
She imagined it, uncharitably. Noise without meaning.
But the longer she watched, the more she doubted.
Vi’s fingers weren’t tapping out a wild rhythm. They ghosted over her leg like she was trying to remember something. A beat, maybe. A melody.
Caitlyn tilted her head. That... didn’t look like someone vibrating with rage.
She let her hand fall to the notebook in front of her—closed, forgotten, sitting on top of the newest draft of the school paper. She should have been editing. Deadlines didn’t care about emotional distraction.
But here she was, staring.
Still thinking about third period. Still thinking about that voice.
When Vi had spoken, it had cut through the classroom like truth. Messy, but sharp. Unfiltered. Like Caitlyn had been watching someone open a window into a room no one else knew existed. And for just a second, all the noise had stopped.
The worst part?
Caitlyn had believed her.
That bothered her more than anything.
She’d spent years building the story: Vi was chaos. Vi was carelessness made flesh. Vi was a permanent problem.
Now, Caitlyn wasn’t so sure.
She opened her notebook.
Vi Lanes is smarter than she lets on.
She hesitated.
Then, beneath it:
She’s hiding.
Her pen hovered. She shouldn’t keep writing this. It wasn’t an article. It wasn’t even notes. It was a distraction. A mistake.
But her hand moved anyway.
I want to know why.
Outside, Vi stood up suddenly.
She shoved her sandwich back onto the tray like it had offended her. Earbuds stuffed into her hoodie pocket, hands clenched deep in the fabric. She didn’t look up. Didn’t glance at the window. But she moved with a strange urgency, like something in her chest had started to burn and she didn’t know how to put it out.
Caitlyn stepped back from the glass.
Her heart was beating faster than it should have been.
Vi Lanes did not belong in her head. She was a distraction. A tangle. A problem.
So why did she feel like the most honest thing Caitlyn had seen all week?
The sky outside was too bright. The wind too still.
And somewhere, between them, something had cracked open.
Not a fire. Not yet.
But the smoke was definitely rising.