The Princess and The Criminal [ CAITVI ]

13 | The Search

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Vi's POV
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I pushed the door open, and Zaun's lovely bouquet hit like a punch to the face: grease, oil, smoke, and that ever-present burn of industrial waste. It had a way of sinking into your lungs, clawing its way in and staying put. But hey, it was home. You either got used to it or you don't survive.

Shoving my hands into my jacket pockets, I glanced back. Caitlyn stood in the doorway, her pale skin almost glowing against the dull backdrop of the city. Her eyes darted around quickly, cataloging every crumbling building, every flickering streetlight, and every shadow that moved just out of sight. Yeah, she hated it. I could practically feel her discomfort.

Stay close," I warned, voice flat but firm. "This place isn't exactly friendly to outsiders."

Her chin jutted up, defiant as ever. "I'm not helpless," she muttered, voice tight, though I could hear the edge in it—she was trying to convince herself as much as me.

"Never said you were," I said, glancing back at her. "But you're sure as hell out of your element here. So maybe stick to me like glue, huh?"

She shot me another look, but fell in line, her steps drawing nearer to mine. Progress.

We moved through the mess of Zaun, dodging broken-down machines, flickering neon signs, and god knows what else. The city was alive in its own twisted way—chaotic, loud, and constantly on the edge of exploding. People scurried around, slipping through the cracks, heads down. No one paid others any mind. Caitlyn, though? Different story. Every gaze lingered just a second too long: the delicate grace of a Piltover noble in a place that ate people alive.

I didn't slow down. If they had questions about the out-of-place girl trailing behind me, they could ask my fists.

After weaving through the mess of rust and rubble, we stopped in front of a dingy little building shoved between two crumbling structures. If you weren't looking, you'd miss it completely. The sign above the door—"The Last Drop"—was barely legible, and the place looked like it hadn't been cleaned in a decade.

Just as I remembered.

I glanced back at Caitlyn. She was still giving the place a once-over, her face set in a tight, unreadable line. Yeah, she wasn't impressed.

"What now?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Now," I said, giving the door a swift kick, "we see if anyone inside has the guts to help us."

The heavy, stale air hit me the second we stepped inside—smoke, booze, and a mix of sweat that clung to the walls. A few regulars were scattered around the bar, talking in low voices.

Caitlyn hesitated, one foot still planted in the doorway, her posture tense. I could practically hear her weighing the decision, calculating if the air in here was worth choking on. But eventually, she stepped in, her movements were slow and careful. Her eyes flicked around the room, fast and cautious, like a deer ready to flee at the slightest provocation.

I arched a brow, letting a smirk tug at the corner of my lips. "Might wanna loosen up a bit. You're screaming 'tourist.'" My gaze swept over her, before locking back on her eyes. "And that stick up your ass? Yeah, Not helping."

Her jaw tightened, sharp enough to draw blood. Without a word, she tugged her scarf higher, like it could somehow block out the city—or me. She didn't need to snap back; the rigid line of her shoulders said it all.

I pushed off, making my way to the bar. My palms hit the counter's worn surface, sticky from years of spilled drinks and no one caring enough to clean. The place hummed with quiet conversation, the soft clinking of glass against glass, and the low, ever-present thrum of machinery outside.