𝐄𝐤𝐤𝐨 | 𝐃𝕚𝕣𝕥𝕪 𝐋𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝐀𝕟𝕚𝕞𝕒𝕝𝕤

3. Thoughts

The Last Drop wasn't what it used to be— not since Vander's time.
The faint smell of smoke mingled with the sour tang of spilled beer. Laughter from a corner table clashed with the clink of glasses, while a couple of drunkards hollered at each other over a game of cards.

I sat at the counter, my elbow propped up as I fidgeted with the straw of my drink, twisting it between my fingers. The condensation from the glass made the surface sticky, but I didn't mind.
My mind was elsewhere, drifting between the echoes of Piltover's sunny docks and Zaun's ever-present gloom.

The chatter behind me rose and fell like waves.
Someone broke into a slurred song, earning groans from the rest of the bar. I sighed.
The last drop of my drink slid down my throat, leaving that pleasant taste on my tongue.
"Chuck, I need a fill," I said, holding up my glass without looking.
The bartender paused, his hands frozen mid-wipe over the creamy countertop.
"It's, uh... Thieram, actually," he corrected, his voice tentative, like he wasn't sure whether to risk it.

I glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised.
"Mh. You strike me more like a Chuck guy," I said faintly, setting the glass down with a quiet clink.
Thieram— or Chuck, as far as I was concerned— hesitated for a moment before shaking his head with a resigned sigh.
He reached for the bottles behind him and started mixing up my drink, the soft glug of liquid against glass blending into the bar's ambient noise.

A small smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth.
It wasn't personal, but the guy had that look— plain, dependable, just like a 'Chuck'.
When he slid the refilled glass back to me, I nodded in approval.
"Thanks, Chuck," I muttered, more to the drink than to him.
I took a sip of my drink, the sweet cranberry taste mixing with the bitterness of the alcohol mixed in it.
I was in one of those moments where the world felt distant, like I was watching it from behind a glass panel— until a stench hit me.

The smell was a mix of sweat, cheap liquor, and something else I didn't want to identify. I wrinkled my nose and let out a quiet groan, moving a few inches to the side as the source of the odour— a broad-shouldered thug with a greasy mop of air— leaned against the counter beside me.
"Whiskey," he barked at Chuck, his words slurring together. Then his bleary eyes landed on me, and a drunken smile spread across his face.
"What's up, doll?"
He slurred, his voice thick and slow.
"Aren't you Silco's little pawn? Maybe I could offer you a drink or two, huh?"

I didn't respond, my fingers tightening around my glass. When he leaned in closer, the filthy smell intensified.
"C'mon, sweetheart," he said, his tone mockingly sweet as his hand reached out, his calloused fingers brushing against my arm.

Something clicked.
My jaw tightened, and the straw I'd been fidgeting with plopped back in the liquid in my glass. Without thinking, I swung my fist.
The impact was satisfying, the crack of bone echoing above the chatter.
The thug stumbled back and crumbled to the floor, out cold.
Chuck flinched, his hands halfway to his head, and the bar fell into an awkward silence as a few heads turned to see what had happened.
Grabbing my drink, I stood, tossing a glance at the unconscious pile on the floor.
"I don't like being touched," I said flatly, loud enough for anyone still watching to hear.

With that, I walked off, ignoring the muttered comments and the faint scrape of a chair being pushed back.
The door to the next room creaked as I pushed it open, and the chaos of the bar faded behind me.
Inside, the lighting was softer, the air quieter.
A few worn but inviting sofas sat scattered across the room, promising some much-needed solitude.
I settled into one of them, setting my drink on the low table in front of me.
Maybe now, I could finally think.

Yet, as I sank into the cushions, a familiar presence made the back of my neck prickle.
Looking up, there she was.
Jinx was sprawled across the top wooden shelf that ran along the edge of the room, like a mischievous cat perched where it didn't belong.
One leg hanging down lazily over the side, swinging in time with the soft creak of the wood.
One of her blue braids cascading down, swaying gently, while her fingers busied themselves with some bizarre contraption.