Arcane headcanons | °• Sevika •°

"Oh take me back to the night we met"

(I realy recommend to listen to the song "the night we met" while you read this chapter. Trust me.)

• The old bar sat quiet, the buzz of its usual crowd replaced by the low hum of a scratchy radio in the corner. Sevika sat alone in her booth, a cigarette burning low between her fingers, the smoke curling upward like a memory refusing to dissipate.

• Her gaze was distant, fixed on the drink in front of her but seeing nothing but the shadow of your face—the way you’d smiled at her when you first met.

• The bar had been louder that night, full of life. She had been the same—sharp, untouchable, all steel and intimidation. And yet, when you walked in, something had shifted.

• She hadn’t noticed you at first. You weren’t like the others, the ones who shrank away or avoided her gaze. You’d walked right up to her, your eyes locking with hers in a challenge that made her blood hum.

• “You look like trouble,” you’d said, and there was no fear in your voice, only intrigue. She’d smirked, amused by your audacity, but beneath it, something softer stirred.

• That night had been the start of something neither of you had anticipated. A give and take, like a fight neither of you wanted to win.

• But now, sitting here in the ruins of it all, Sevika couldn’t shake the ache in her chest, the sharp edge of your absence cutting deeper than any blade ever could.

• She could still feel your touch, your hand brushing hers as you patched up her wounds, your fingers tangling in her hair on nights when the weight of the Undercity became too much.

• Her jaw clenched as she took a drag from her cigarette, the embers burning bright for a moment before fading into ash. You’d always hated the habit, muttering under your breath every time you found her lighting up.

• “You’re gonna die faster if you keep that up, you know,” you’d said once, pulling the cigarette from her lips and taking a drag yourself just to prove a point. She’d laughed then, a rare, genuine sound, and you’d smirked like you’d won something.

• Now, she sat alone, the weight of her mistakes heavier than the smoke-filled air around her.

• She hadn’t stopped you the last time you’d walked out, thinking you’d come back like you always did. But the look in your eyes that night—tired, worn, filled with something she didn’t want to name—should’ve told her otherwise.

• Sevika ran a hand down her face, the metal cool against her skin, as the scratchy radio crackled to life with a song that twisted the knife in her chest.

• “I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you...”

• The memory of you was everywhere. The way you’d laughed at her terrible jokes, the way you’d stood your ground in arguments even when you knew she was right.

• The way you’d looked at her that last night, your voice breaking as you said, “I can’t keep doing this, Sevika.”

• She’d tried to fight it then, the urge to reach for you, to hold onto you as if her grip could fix the cracks in what you had. But she hadn’t.

• Now, as the song filled the empty bar, Sevika felt the weight of what she’d lost settling like a stone in her chest.

• “Oh, take me back to the night we met...”

• Her fingers tightened around the glass in front of her, the whiskey untouched, its amber surface reflecting the fragments of a life she’d let slip through her hands.

• If she could go back, she would. To that night. To the first spark of whatever this had been. To the moment before she’d let the darkness of her world pull her under, dragging you down with her.

• But there was no going back. No undoing the damage she’d caused, the scars she’d left on something she had no idea how to protect.

• The bar was silent again as the song faded, leaving Sevika alone with the ghosts of what once was, the echoes of your laughter haunting her in the stillness.