The Princess and The Criminal [ CAITVI ]

14 | Corrupted by Shimmer

Author: Hi readers! Before diving into this chapter, I want to take a moment to share a content warning. This chapter includes scenes of violence, action, and descriptions of injury. Please proceed with caution if you're sensitive to this content. Thank you for your support, and I hope you enjoy the chapter!

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Caitlyn's POV
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"Well, well, what do we have here?"

I turned sharply, my hand instinctively brushing against my hip—where, of course, there was no weapon. My first thought was an ambush. My second thought was—well, I didn't get to a second thought before I was met with the sight of a figure.

At first glance, he might've passed for human—tall, gaunt, with hollowed cheeks and a look that felt all too hungry. But it didn't take long to spot the jars strapped to his chest, faintly glowing with a sickly purple light, veins twisting under his skin like invasive roots. The way his eyes gleamed, intense and unsettling, made my stomach knot.

"What in Piltover's name is that?" I managed, my voice sharp but unsteady.

"Shimmer junkie," Vi replied, her tone laced with disgust as she gave a dismissive grunt.
She didn't look up from the pile of rusted tools she was rifling through, as though these kinds of horrors were just part of her world. "Guess we're in the middle of their happy hour."

"And what's this? Topside royalty?" The figure grinned, his lips peeling back to reveal jagged, stained teeth. "Pretty little doll like her doesn't belong here."

Vi finally stood, her grip tightening around a rusty wrench. "You always this chatty," she drawled, her tone dry, "or is that just the brain rot talking?"

The man's grin twisted into something darker, and his body jerked unnaturally, as if puppeteered by some invisible force. Before I could draw another breath, more figures emerged from the shadows—six, maybe seven, each as warped as the first. The glint of their makeshift weapons caught the dim light, one dragging a rusted blade along the wall, sending sparks into the polluted air.

"Vi," I muttered, my voice steady, though my pulse hammered in my ears. I stepped closer to her, my instincts overriding any stubborn notions of pride.

She shifted slightly, placing herself squarely between me and the advancing junkies—her voice and firm. "Stay behind me."

"Absolutely not," I countered. "There are far too many of them."

Vi glanced at me, one brow arching with faint amusement. "Cute."

Before I could protest, she launched.

Her wrench cut through the air with brutal precision, connecting with the junkie's ribs in a sickening crunch. The impact sent him sprawling into a pile of debris, followed by the hiss of shattered glass as one of the jars exploded—a noxious vapor curling into the air.

Another lunged at her, this one wielding a jagged blade. She sidestepped, catching his arm mid-swing and twisting sharply. The pop of a dislocated shoulder echoed, followed by the man's guttural shout.

Her knee shot up, connecting with his jaw in a brutal arc. He hit the ground, unconscious.

She moved like a force—precise and entirely unflinching. Her wrench swung with a practiced efficiency that left no wasted motion. This was her element, and as much as I hated to admit it, she was disturbingly good at it.

Meanwhile, I stood there, my gaze flicking around for a weapon, a plan—anything. But my whole life had been lessons on protocol, etiquette, and sharpshooting. None of which were remotely useful for back-alley melee fights in the depths of Zaun.