you have a good heart.

zaun is forever changing. it’s that change that he’s most grateful for. without it, they’d be just another helpless wraith of human, begging for the scraps of those who can’t afford to let anything go to waste. under nikolai’s rule, zaun was stuck in stasis. slaves to piltover, trapped under the thumbs of enforcers. but with alexei, it’s not the same story. this volkov doesn’t have fear of the topsiders, and yen can almost taste piltover’s downfall.

the last drop comes into view, and as a smile blooms, a body knocks her shoulder, breaking her gaze. irritation makes metal hands itch, and instead of letting the zaunite carry on with their day, they catch the hooded figure’s chin in a harsh motion. “where are your manners?” he taunts, as if such virtues have ever meant anything to those in the lanes. their other hand grabs a fistful of fabric, pulling down the strangers hood–

except it’s no stranger. a ghost, but no stranger.

“well, well, well,” they start, a devilish grin tugging at the corners of their mouth, “heard about stillwater. didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to come back here, princess.” gears whirr, the grip on daiyu’s chin tightening with every moment that passes. “there’s a pretty price on your head. daddy dearest must be worried sick.” a laugh echoes through the alleyway. they are no stranger to the most powerful family in the undercity, they know there is no care in alexei’s bones, that he sent his daughter to stillwater to rot for betraying him. and while yennefer values freedom above all, it doesn’t include the freedom of others.

“i don’t think i will,” they say with a pout, as if there’s any fibre of them that feels bad about trading the youngest volkova in for more shimmer than they can fathom. “not unless you’ll pay me more for looking the other way. but something tells me that, fresh out of prison, you have very little to give me. no? though…” when he laughs again, he brings his face closer to the other’s, eyes gleaming with something sinister, “you could always beg.”

The grip is iron. No, literally, it’s made of whirring and clicking metal bits that hold her bones in place tighter than anything made of human flesh and bone ever could. She won’t wince: worse violence has met her face and besides, to show fear is to lose. Maybe that’s one of the lessons she has regained from Alexei, though it had always been her true father who’d heralded her bravery for the right reasons. And, admittedly, berated her for it at the same time. Not that she ever listened. 

“Who doesn’t love a fucking homecoming, right?” Her eyes move from the other’s wrist to shoulder, searching for weak spots in the armour but mostly looking right into his eyes. “Enough about me, though — what’s been up with you? Lost another limb?” The neck’s meat. Torso must be too. Hopefully. Daya curses herself for only carrying a kitchen knife ( thanks, Yolandi ) with her and nothing more. Curses herself for plenty of other shit, too.

Curses Yennefer for being such a cunt, too. He leans in closer and though Daya can smell their breath, she doesn’t move her head back. “I don’t think I will,” she echoes. Here’s Yen’s mistake: some threatening words and a tightening mechanic grip on a chin isn’t enough to restrain her. Should’ve gone for the arms, the legs. Daya’s knee reaches up, hitting him in the groin and then her fist balls, connecting with the others jaw, finishing the blow before retracting and going in for another.

It’s all wrong. The lanes of Zaun aren’t what they once were, when left under Nik’s rule. Daya walks them with a hood pulled over her head, shifty eyes taking in her surroundings as she moves over cobbled streets and roofs alike towards the familiarity of the Last Drop. She’s heard whispers, of course, about the way this place has been changed – prison rats like gossip almost as much as gratuitous violence, you see – but it doesn’t mean she’s prepared for this. 

From a perch up high she looks at the bar that had once been Nik’s corner of this world, where business was dealt. Too young to fully grasp it, then, she’d mostly liked to slip under tables and watch hardened criminals deal their cards. Drink something way too strong when she was much too young, have Nik berate her gruffly as her throat burned. It’s supposed to be a beacon, a place of coming together, but now there’s two of Alexei’s men at the entrance, muscled and heavy, glowering. For a moment, she thinks she might topple from her perch, onto the street — one of them had been there, that night. For a moment, she thinks she might jump off her perch and try and slip something sharp into the artery that stands thick in his muscled neck.

But — she’s grown weak. It’s not like she’s had a lack of training over the years ( one could definitely say Stillwater had made an even better fighter out of her ), but she has lacked sustenance and proper sleep whereas these guys? They seem in tip-top shape. So, she slips away, something in her quivering with rage. There’s so much wish for vengeance and so little she holds. Allies, she thinks, I need allies that aren’t as precious as Yolandi. 

Daya moves through an alleyway, adjusting her hood a little, picking up the pace. She needs to be off the streets, back on the rooftops where there’s less risk of —

This.

he feels a hand on his knee, and when he meets inna’s eyes, there is something there he can’t quite pinpoint. something in him settles, but it doesn’t make his nerve endings any less itchy. eyes dart between everyone sat at the table, until lastly he catches his father’s heavy lidded gaze. he opens his mouth, and then he falls forward into his plate. vissa sits in shock, eyes wide and heart thumping vigorously.

then a shot fires, and vissa whips his head around to see not his uncle dropping, but the guard who’s gun was pointed to his head. one of the guards turned their gun on their own, and it can only mean one thing. inna had bought them a ticket to freedom. he doesn’t have time to think, grabbing a steak knife from the side of his plate. vissa kicks his chair back into the guard behind him as he turns around, taking the split second of confusion to sink the knife into their neck. gripping the body that gradually turns limp as it bleeds out, vissa uses it as a shield, absorbing gunfire from the other guards.

inna has a similar idea, and her usually quiet stance leaves her underestimated. so when the four guards on this side of the room are busy trying to eliminate vissarion from the picture, she sticks a steak knife in one’s throat. again, and again, and again. the body drops, and one guard whips around to strike her across the cheek. she falls, and vissa sees red. he bulldozes past the guard who managed to take the knife from him, dodging slashes until he finds an opening to tackle him into the wall. vissa grabs him by the throat and slams his head against the wallpaper until something cracks. when they slide to the floor, vissa picks up the steak knife and approaches the guard wrestling with inna on the floor. she’s a fighter, because they all had to be, but she doesn’t have the physical strength of her siblings. so vissa grabs the guard by his hair and digs the knife into his neck, cutting it open and spraying his sister in warm crimson.

the guard on their side is fighting someone much bigger than her, dancing over the body of the man who’s gun was pointed to nikolai’s temple. with one last precise punch to the neck, the guard keels over, and she puts a bullet in their skull. with the last two fighting alexei’s youngest, she aims her pistol, but it’s hard to get a clear shot with daiyu in the mix. it’s then that inna, face stained red, fires a shot. having picked up a dead guard’s gun, she finds a slim opening, leaving a hole in the shoulder of the guard closest to daiyu, giving her sister the window to finish off the last two.

then the room is still. a groan sounds from the floor, a man not yet dead, and inna fires a bullet into his brain without a second thought. then she picks up a napkin, and in front of a large, now broken mirror on the wall, she begins to wipe the blood from her face and neck. “he’ll be out for a few hours,” she says without looking around, eyes finding the reflected versions of her siblings as the remaining guard secures alexei’s wrists behind his back. “he’s done. his power is gone. they—” she motions to the bodies on the floor briefly, “were the only ones left protecting him.” now she turns around, still blood stained, but no longer soaked. “this is your chance to get out,” she says, meeting her siblings gazes.

Daiyu, if anything, is well trained. She might be the runt of the litter but she’s still been raised like a guard dog, a sharp-toothed beast that’s made for destruction. And so she does, her father’s weapon the only thing in her hands as she jumps from her chair onto the guard, wrapping her legs around his middle as they fall onto the floor and the sharp of her blade meets flesh. Eye, cheek, sinews under his shirt, punches and cuts combined. 

But there’s another guard, who’s on her, pulling her away and all she knows is to clutch to the scalpel, to wait for opportunity and take it when it appears. She drives the blade into his thigh, where an artery lingers. Misses, but his grip slackens and Daiyu slips, her short height used to her advantage as she kicks at his leg. It’s a blur, a flurry, the other guard gaining traction once more. And then, a gunshot pierces the air, whizzes past his head and flies through his shoulder. Daiyu watches him drop and whips, slicing at the throat of the other guard and watching him stumble. Then, like the beast she’s made to be, she pounces on the last one, smiling as she puts pressure on his gunshot wound before driving the scalpel past ribs where she knows the heart resides. The muscle is pierced and he stirs beneath her as blood starts to pool. 

Maybe Alexei should have gotten dogs, rather than children: they tend to be more obedient, after all. But even so, when you raise your children like attack animals, you have to understand that one day they might form a pack. 

Daiyu watches the light leave the guard’s eyes and retrieves her weapon of choice, getting up and turning to look at her siblings. Adrenaline pulsates in her ears. She runs a hand through her hair, blood sticking to the strands. “For a few hours?” She laughs, inches closer to Alexei, grabs a hand full of hair and pulls his head back. A twisted mirrored image, this: she holds the scalpel against his throat. “Why not make it forever?” 

As she stands at the head of the table, she looks at the scene, and she shoves her father’s head forward, hard. Alexei Volkov’s head crashes down, breaking the plate it lands on, cracking open on the shards. She lets the scalpel skitter to the floor. There’s one more thing about this scene that’s still very wrong. 

ever the watchful eye, inna remains characteristically silent. just a fly on the wall. she sees the opportunities her siblings steamroll past, and that’s why there’s excitement bubbling at her fingertips rather than the fear she feels from vissa and daiyu. inna watches as her uncle sucks in laboured breaths between bloody lips, and finds a little satisfaction. this is man who left her behind. but he is also the man who gave daiyu a chance, so she knows true satisfaction has not arrived just yet.

her father smiles his cruel smile, and with a graciously thankful bow of his head, he picks back up the scalpel. “thank you, daiyu,” he grins, because he thinks he’s winning, but inna knows better. alexei let’s his brother go, and nik keels over again. when alexei takes his seat again, daiyu is still being held firmly in her seat. alexei stares at his brother as he pours himself a glass of wine, and inna almost smiles when he takes a purposeful sip and sets down the glass.

“it’s all very touching, the love you have for him. but it’ll do you no good, daiyu,” as if his cruelty was ever for anyone but himself. with a wave of his hand, the guard who’s gun was at nik’s temple returns, finger on the trigger, and her uncle still doesn’t react. “and well, what do we do things we love, nikolai? we kill them.”

but when she turns back to her father, his eyes look heavier. she sees her brother’s rising panic and in a moment of compassion, she offers him reassurance. her hand rests on his knee below the table, and when he catches her gaze, it’s calm, and she smiles. something in him changes, and she hopes he’s ready to set himself free.

when she breaks away, her eyes find each of the four men on the opposite side of the room, the two that hold daiyu, the third who’s pistol is aimed at her uncle’s head, but her eyes linger on the fourth, still standing against the wall. when this is over, she should really thank her sister for giving her the opportunity to remove the men who’s loyalty for her father isn’t breakable. the empire is so nearly in her grasp.

Daiyu watches. Watches him pick up the scalpel and wonders, for a moment, if he will deliver a killing blow despite her obedience, but in stead he thanks her and walks. She does not answer, because the words on her tongue are nothing but vitriol and she wants to see him in his seat. When he’s there, though she’s appalled by the proximity, can feel herself starting to wriggle under the restricting hands that keep her in place. She can feel her mind slipping, to dinners of her youth.

Not that she’d sat next to her father, growing up. But this dinner table, this house, the way he sits there and looks at all of them: it’s enough to catapult her back. She feels something constrict her throat, feels the hands on her shoulders disappear even though they remain there. There’s a dizziness in her limbs and she begs herself to remain grounded, to not give into this thing that pulls her down every now and then.

For a moment, she closes her eyes. Her father drinks his wine and she inhales, and then looks up at her brother. Stares at Vissa with eyes that scream of defeat Daiyu feels her hands shaking and she clutches them into fists. She doesn’t even notice the gun at Nik’s head. “And you think that’ll accomplish what? Killing him? You think that’ll make me not love him any more?” She grits her teeth, looks her father straight in the eye. Expects anything but the drowsy look she’s met with. 

the first word out of her mouth makes vissarion almost recoil. it’s not her words or their weight that twist his stomach into painful knots, but knowing the consequence of fighting back at all. he might not be the sharpest at this table, in fact he might be trailing further behind than he let himself believe, but he knows what his father wants. vissa sees the desire to hurt in his father’s laugh clear as day, blinding like the sun, and there’s no one else in the world who can match a volkov’s cruelty.

his eyes remain focused on food that is far from appetising when his uncle and sister were stupid enough to come back. no one will ever fucking listen to me. hands curl into fists under the table. vissarion doesn’t feel the same pang when his uncle let’s out a pained noise, and instead, vissa tries to meet daiyu’s gaze. his heart races now, at the thought of being seen trying to communicate with her in any way that isn’t some kind of antagonistic instigation. but she’s always been too busy fighting bigger targets. his foot taps hers under the table, and he waits, watching her with desperation. look at me, look at me, look at me, you need to back down, you need to fucking back down—

but his father’s voice has always had a way of stripping him of his confidence, and his eyes dart away. “daiyu, you should remember your manners.” vissa holds his breath as his father sets down the scalpel within his uncle’s reach. dread builds and builds and builds—

alexei’s curled up fist rears back and slams into nikolai’s ribs, pushing a pained cough from his chest as a little blood is sprayed from his mouth across the empty, white porcelain plate in front of him. inna meets her sister’s eyes briefly with something indecipherable in her own (assurance? apathy?) as nik keels over again, face nearly resting on that plate, spitting saliva and spit lazily. another groan sounds when alexei grabs his shoulder and pulls him upright again. “do you remember how to act now?” alexei asks his youngest, waiting for her to give him another free pass at causing his brother real pain with a wide yet somehow effortless smile. “or do you want to be the reason he suffers more?”

It doesn’t work.

Nothing ever works in this fucking house, Daya should know that by now. She should know that there is no outsmarting her father, that attempting to anger him would always, always come back to haunt her. She feels her brother trying to catch her attention but continues to stare daggers at Alexei, continues to feel her heart thumping in her throat whenever she looks at Nik. 

Her mouth opens for a retort, for more crude words, for more ways to cross the lines that were drawn before she was even born. But then Alexei punches Nik and blood sprays and Daya scrambles from her seat after choking out a loud, “No!” Before she can get to her feet completely, there’s hands on her shoulders, pressing her down, keeping her firmly in her seat and Daya can hear herself panting, watches the red on the white porcelain, watches Nik keel. 

She had always taken to Alexei’s punishments with a certain pride, a chin jutted up even when her body reeled with pain, trying her best to not give him the satisfaction of seeing her defeated. But it’s one thing to suffer harm and it’s another to be the cause another suffers, that’s something she’s known since early childhood, too. Her head shakes. “No, no. I’ll — I can act right.” Her fingers dig into the raw red of her wrists and she stares at Nik, feels her panic climb into her chest. 

daiyu is the last to arrive, dragged kicking and screaming. nik doesn’t have to look up to know she’s there, he never has. but this time, he’s not comforted by her presence. maybe it’s guilt too, that stops him from using what strength he has left to sit straighter and meet his family’s eyes. if he had done a better job at hiding himself and his daughters, maybe they wouldn’t be here, back where it all started. 

at the head of the table opposite him, his brother sits patiently with a soft smile, scalpel in hand. to his left, sits vissarion, eyes locked on nothing in particular, certainly not his struggling youngest sister. oh his left, sits inna, calm and collected, watching the events unfold with a piercing gaze. to alexei’s right is where daiyu is forced into a chair by two particularly burly men. nik hears her continue to fight, and that’s when he finally lifts his head, eyes struggling to focus until a gun barrel rests against his temple and a familiar click sounds. 

“daya… it’s okay—” please, stop fighting, please—

“her name is daiyu,” alexei says calmly, twirling the scalpel between his fingers. brothers meet eyes, and alexei smiles wider. the volkov patriarch stands from his seat, glancing briefly at his men that line the walls of the dining room before he moves to stand behind his son. hands find vissa’s shoulders and the eldest does his best not to tense up as the scalpel rests against his shoulder. “well done, vissarion. whatever you said to her, you convinced her to return home.” vissarion keeps his guilt-laden gaze away from his sister’s eyes opposite him.

tremors have started showing in nik’s hands, but when alexei doesn’t so much as spare inna glance, walking right past her to his side, he grips the armrests of the chair tight enough to be still. “you look thirsty, nikolai, here,” alexei reaches for a decanter of wine from the middle of the table and pours his bleeding brother a glass. “there’s no shame, nikolai, we all know how impartial you are to a drink or two.” alexei stands, and waits.

except there is shame, the same brand that daiyu carries on her back. shame for things that couldn’t be controlled, like their influences in life. but nikolai has never once let his brother win, so even if his broken rib stops him sitting up completely, nik meets his brother’s eyes with a nod and a smile of gratitude. “how thoughtful of you,” he mumbles, reaching for the glass. as he does, alexei is quicker, knocking it over and letting the liquid spill across the table. 

“oops. i’m sure you can pour yourself another.” alexei grips his little brother’s shoulder, pushing him back so he sits upright, making nik groan with pain, his vision becoming hazier. “sit up, nikolai, what happened to your manners?” there is no orchestrated kindness in these words, only sadism looking for a fix.

There is only one thing to do but fight. She’s lost some of her strength, bed-bound as she was before being dragged from the childhood bedroom that has left her in this state: feral, fetal, furious. There’s teeth marks in the hands of one of the guards, but it’s no use. It’s never any use in her father’s house and yet, that has never stopped her. When she enters the room, and her eyes take in the scene ( too many men to take on, her father, Nik, her siblings ) she fights even harder, all scrambling limbs and scratching arms as she’s put in a seat.

So close to Alexei that she could scratch open his face. Gauge out his eyes with her own fingers. Spit into the bloody holes. Break the cartillage in his nose. 

She fights her father’s men as she attempts to get up again, intending to lurge for a glass and then smash it onto Alexei’s head, but then there’s the click of a gun and her head snaps, gaze snapping onto Nik, who should not be here — why is he here? Her gaze focuses the gun against his head. Daya stops fighting. Balls her fists under the table. 

“My name hasn’t been Daiyu in fucking years,” she spits back, watching the man who calls himself her father trail behind Vissa ( who she can’t look at ) to Inna ( who she stares at, hard ) to Nik. How wrong she had been, thinking she could distract Alexei, that she could pull all his cruel attention onto herself and give Nik and Yolandi a chance. Because while there’s red around her wrists and ankles, while there’s an itch down her throat from the tube that had been stuck down there, she’s whole. And Nik? He looks beaten, broken, bested. My fault my fault my fault.

Daya releases a fist, presses her fingers into the raw skin around her wrists where she had been restrained not long ago, willing herself to sit still as Alexei makes wine spill over the table, as he grips Nik, as he causes pain to the man she had wanted to protect. She wills herself to not beg. Lets the pain ground her. 

every word out of her mouth pulls his heart further and further through the floor. dread is a disease, it threatens to freeze him up and accept something brutal, but to this day, it hasn’t succeeded, and he wants to keep it so. a desire to live is a powerful thing, a never ending stream of sparks, ready to fuel even the most desperate of plans. desperation is better than giving up. there’s no time to waste, so nik opens daya’s bedroom door and starts to pack her a bag too, leaving the door wide open to continue this maddening conversation.

“you probably haven’t thought about it enough,” he states, resolute, “we don’t even have time to be arguing about this, we don’t have time to be waiting for yola to get home, we should have been gone half an hour ago. so please don’t fight me right now, okay? we can talk on the way.” he comes out with the bare minimum in a bag, and drops it at her side. “if you have an idea that doesn’t include using yourself as bait, or a, i don’t know, sacrifice? is that what you’re thinking? then i’m all ears.” she’s not easily swayed, so he can’t fathom what’s made her suddenly disregard her safety and happiness. “what the hell did vissarion say to you?” he questions while he raids every hidden spot in the flat, throwing guns into his bag and arming the odd trap in the hopes of getting something close of a fuck you to those hunting them when they inevitably come looking.

Daya watches him move to her room and she scrambles to her feet, abandoning her beer and following him. She does not move to stop him, well aware that he has muscular strength on her, but she’s quick to snatch a hoodie from her supposed get away back and chuck it on her bed. She’s always been better at these acts of petty rebellion, anyway, needle-pricking annoyances until she makes her target lose it.

“No, I thought about it enough,” she retorts, immediately jumping on the defence. “There’s no on the way, ‘cause I’m staying right here. But keep packing, if that’s your new hobby.” She quips and denies, like a petulant child, stubbornly attached to the plan she has convinced herself is best. But Nik knows her, better than her siblings, better than the man that calls her her father, better than most. And Daya shrugs. “Not as bait or a sacrifice. As a distraction. You know that I can hold his attention, I always could do it better than any of the others.” For all the wrong reasons, but what did it matter? Daya would gladly provoke Alexei if it meant that Nik and Yola could get a headstart. 

She trails behind, lending a hand where she can even if she doesn’t know every hidden place as well as Nik. “He said a lot. Most of it bullshit.” Daya doesn’t want to voice it, doesn’t want to put the things she’s feeling and thinking into actual words that can be heard and responded to. “It’s not ‘cause of anything he said. It’s what I’ve known all along.” And here she is, so very bad at keeping her own feelings unvoiced even if they’re best dead and buried. “I abandoned them, Nik, and I know you don’t see it that way, but I did, so maybe I can right a couple of wrongs here, and maybe I can give you and Yola a headstart. It’s smart. It’s something I wanna do.”

it almost doesn’t feel true. she stands amongst piltover’s elite, wearing garments not seen amongst miners and criminals. after all, there isn’t a market for pretty dresses with people who have to steal their evening meal. inna holds her head high in the sea of diplomats and rich merchants, as if she’s always belonged there with them, as if she isn’t still coughing up the thick air of the undercity. and while she feels in her element, she does not feel like she belongs. these people would see the undercity suffocate before lifting a finger to help them. but she is not here for justice or anything righteous. inna wants to see these people beg for what they have, and take it all from their grips anyway. and maybe, just maybe, if piltover moves to the beat of her drum, she can rid the undercity of him. 

drink in hand, she makes her way around the party, whispering temptation into the ears of those with large pockets. invest in me, she says to them, you won’t regret it. in piltover, she is not inna volkova, daughter of alexei. here, she is xifeng chen. a name lost to her too many moons ago to count. a devil in the clothes of a ghost. here, she is just a merchant, dabbling in the expensive and rare items piltover has to offer.

inna excuses herself from a particularly boring turn in conversation with a amicable smile, and as she scans the room again, she finds a face that’s far more enticing than the rest. councillor vempati. she approaches gracefully, having picked up two drinks from a waiter that crosses her path, and offering one to the councillor. “councillor vempati, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she begins, her smile warm and inviting, “i’m a big fan. which is a lot more than i can say for anyone else here.” in reality, the councillor while clearly not a stupid woman, has an air of malliability about her that sparks idea after idea, all of which are nothing short of selfish. who better to have wrapped around her little finger than the city’s most up and coming councillor? “xifeng chen,” she reaches out a hand to shake, “i’ve not been in piltover long, but it certainly lives up to expectations. city of progress.” she takes a sip of her drink, smiling brightly as she swallows, “did you grow up here?”

People want to talk to her. In the almost six months since she had definitively graced the city’s council with her pleasure, Esha had found herself overwhelmed with people demanding her attention. A colleague of hers, multiple decades her senior, had whispered snidely that she was too soft with people, that she would wear herself thin and make herself seem weak by giving everyone attention. But everything is politics in these circles and seeming kind and approachable is beneficial, too. Especially when there’s a hint of truth to it.

She listens with intent ears and remembers names with impressive skill. Patience has always been her greatest virtue, a trait that she needs if she wants Piltover to make the strides she wants it to make. A better city, for everyone. That same colleague had called her a daft idealist, once, voice maternal as if she was speaking to a young daughter. Esha was quite tired of her conservative fellow councillors as well as the people that stood on their side.

Fresh faces, because of that, are a welcome sight. She is one herself, after all, one of the youngest councilwoman in a long stretch of time, and even if it is nepotism that partly brings her here, she thinks herself a wind of fresh air. The woman that approaches her is young, too, and ( something she’s unable not to notice ) beautiful, too. Esha accepts the drink, smiles. “I feel honoured,” she says, appearing easily flattered. But she doesn’t do this for the fans or recognition, so it’s partly feigned. She shakes Xifeng’s hand, “Pleasure to meet you, too.” Mirroring the other, not even on purpose but simply by chance, Esha takes a small nip from her drink. “I’m biased, of course, but I do think it’s one of the finest cities on the continent.” A city of progress and opportunity: Esha just hoped to ensure that progress was made in the right decision, for the right reasons. “I did. Only a few streets from here, actually. My family has been here for generations.” To some, such things mattered. To others, less so. “Where do you dwell from, then? And what brings you here?” She gestures around, lets a small chuckle slip from her lips. “Not for events like this, I hope. We have much more to offer.”

maybe they’re more similar than either of them ever realised, because those games have never been his forte either. to inna, it’s like breathing air, but for him, he’s barely keeping a level expression as he drowns in it all. perhaps the key difference is how good at hiding he is compared to her. hiding was never in her nature, and vissa barely remembers a time where he was true to himself. “fuck, you really still don’t get it? we knew you weren’t lying, that’s what made it so fucking dangerous. he might not have killed all three, but he sure as fuck would kill two to teach the one who gets to live a lesson. he finds out everything. everything. he’ll probably find out i tipped you off.” fear bubbles up now, and collected arrogance melts away to expose the beginnings of a boy who lost his way many, many years ago. vissa begins to pace. “you think he wasn’t watching everything we did? straightforward gets you nothing good back there.” he stops, running a hand through his hair, as if that will relieve the panic. as he stops, he wonders if this is her speaking truth now, or if in all this time, she’s learned to lie. she must have, to some degree, shedding her name like old skin. either way, it’s of no worth to him now. maybe he’ll never be good enough for any of them. 

at least there’s something they can agree on. “yeah, you would have. it was in your eyes sometimes. at least we’re both still alive, right?” he wonders if she’ll agree at all, or if all she sees is an enemy. “what the fuck else could you possibly want from me? dad’s head on a silver platter? a magical train ticket that’ll take you to fucking dreamland where all the bad people can’t get you? grow up. you should be thankful you saw me first and not him.”

So he’s doing it again. Risking his back to buy Daiyu something. Time or opportunity, something she just has to grasp if she’s really thankful, but she isn’t sure if she can. “We’re not kids any more, Vissa,” she returns. “You clearly don’t want to do what he wants you to, so why are you ... why don’t you give it a shot, huh? Why don’t you use this apparent inkling of a spine?” He starts to pace and Daiyu watches him for a moment, before stopping him in his tracks and grabbing his shoulders, “He’s not listening now, is he? So, what, he’ll find out and give you hell, and you’ll become properly obedient again and what then? The same over and over? You haven’t changed one bit, Vis, if that’s what you’re accepting for yourself.” But Daiyu had been ready to die, back then, and she was again, right now. Sooner dead than a piece on her dad’s board, where Vissarion seemed happy to be a pawn, hoping to one day cross the board and be promoted to something more powerful. “You shouldn’t want to get anything from him.” But he’d always been hungry, where Daiyu was willing to starve. She thinks she might pity him. 

“You’re not alive.” She does not say it to be cruel, but rather to be truthful. “Not like this. This isn’t living.” She lets go of him, steps back and crosses her arms. “You know what I want. I’ve been asking for it since we were young, but you clearly won’t give it to me. So fuck off, if this is all you have to offer.” She’s getting angry and it’s becoming hard, to find words that are reasoning, persuasive, useful. Daiyu feels a hurt she hasn’t felt in over a decade and she wants to cast it out, to push it aside, but it’s impossible with Vissa still in the room. “You know what? You grow up.”

“i don’t think you can blame me for asking,” she hisses. the anger isn’t directed at her cousin, but it’s fired in her direction anyway. “a lot of people have changed. people who stood by—” dad. the word gets caught in her throat, “they’re all his lapdogs now. poisoning the lanes.” another name that doesn’t have to be said, and one she fears to speak into the world in case the devil hears his name and comes knocking. but this is her sister, not the cousin she was once afraid of. the woman in front of her is not made of the same fibres as the rest of their living relatives, and so yola slips her gun back into its holster.

“stillwater?” yola takes a few steps closer, eyes still unblinking. guilt makes her muscles sore. all this time, she was only in stillwater. yola sucks in a shaky breath, eyes focusing on nothing in particular as her mind whirrs. “yeah, i, uh, heard about that. so it wasn’t him.” it was the only explanation that made sense until now. there was no one else in the lanes with enough power to pull off such a stunt. but if her uncle was trying to keep daiyu under lock and key, there must be another player in the undercity with rivalling influence that she hasn’t clocked yet.

“well, congratulations. this is supposed to be damn hard to find.” she makes a mental note to bring up the weaknesses in their defences to the rest of the group later. yola almost asks daiyu if anyone could have followed her, but the question dies on her tongue. she knows her sister better than that. but just as all that hope began to build, five words tear those foundations apart and her hope comes crumbling down on top of her. she wills the tears pooling in her eyes to return to where they came from, but not even her stubbornness stops them cascading down pale cheeks. “i thought so.” it was the only way her father wouldn’t have come back to her, she refuses to believe anything else. “how did it happen?” she asks, head hanging low as if that would mask her bleeding heart.

The anger is thrown at her and Daiyu can feel her instincts demanding her to return it, to throw it back. That’s how she’d survived these past years, after all: she met every bark with a bite. “And you can’t blame me for being fucking offended after all the shit he’s put me – no, us – through.” Yolandi never really met Alexei’s cruelty as intimately as she had and Daiyu does not resent her for it, even if there’s a silent, childish part of her that is envious. “I’m not his anything, got it? I wasn’t his prisoner and I sure as shit am not his fucking pawn.”

Anger is easy. An endless ocean to lose yourself in and Daiyu, for a moment, considers giving into it. But she holds no rage towards Yola. She breathes, balls her free hand in a fist, nails pressing in its palm. “Yeah. Had a wonderful time. Free boarding and food, what a fucking deal, am I right? Better than most get ‘round here.” Sarcasm drips from her lips, a language that’s easier than the truth. The truth of how hollow and lonely she had felt, like her child-self. 

“And here I thought you were doing it just for me.” Always an answer for everything. Like a kid with a piece of peeling wallpaper, gnawing at it until it comes undone. It’s childish, really. Genevieve appears to be amicable enough, even biting back an eye roll he knows is set to come around. No, the issue is with him, and the flagrant resistance for an easy (or worse, boring) time as her partner. It didn’t help, of course, that she’s almost irresistibly insubordinate. But he supposes that’s his own cross to bare. “But I’ll take common courtesy and your, uh,” Derrick tilts his head in speculation. “Gluten-free, sugar free, ethically sourced scones?” As good a guess as any. He’d also accept a cauliflower crust pie.

At the question, Derrick preens. Just when he expected her to know everything from his shoe size to his affair with the Prima Ballerina of the New York Ballet. “A good engineer knows his product.” He answers astutely, turning the key in hand to the W&W logo on the back. “And uses it, too. Call me the guinea pig. We’re not putting it out in production until 2023. I’m still figuring out the engine, though.” There’s a sudden clarity to his voice, a matter-of-fact way of speaking that highlights his care for the product itself. As well, the need to somehow impress. Huh. Maybe he isn’t immune to the effects of the prestigious street after all.

“Centuries? Jesus.” He assesses it again, caught somewhere between impressed and disbelieving. Even with their multi-millions, Derrick can’t fathom it. His eyes blink, a moment of hesitation that’s out of step with his bravado. “Nah. More like an old house off in Brooklyn. I could probably fit the whole place in your sitting room.” Which is different from a living room, according to posh people. The walk to his old, favorite diner is no more than fifteen minutes. The back-and-forth sparring lasts just as long, and Derrick smirks just a little. Yeah. None of this would be boring.

“You hungry?” He asks, almost companionably as he holds the door out for her. “‘Cause Sal makes the best fucking breakfast sandwiches. Percent bacon to egg to cheese ratio.”

She lets out a huff of air. “Don’t count yourself so lucky.” Annoyance is an easy feeling to tap into, something that gives and gives and in the end, just takes, but Genevieve doesn’t care about that. There’s strain between her shoulders from the things she quietly carries and this is one way to deal with it, with small bouts of anger at small inconveniences. “Is that how lowly you think of me? I use proper butter and sugar.” She’s about to continue going off, before deciding against it and offering a, “You’ll just have to wait and see what I whip up.” She hopes it blows his socks off, not because she wants to satisfy him, but because she would like to surprise him.

“So you use it to stand still in endless traffic? Must be a marvellous way to test your product.” Her tone, once again, is deadpan. She doesn’t much care for vehicles, but she knows about W&W and now, too, of Derrick’s involvement in the family company. That, at least, is some common ground between them, but not one she’d like to acknowledge. “You’d have more luck out in the country, don’t you think?”

His family had started from humble beginnings, that Genevieve has learned too. New money. She tries not to turn up her nose at it, but the way he rubs it in her face, the fact that she’d had money for centuries where he hadn’t, makes her want to do it all the same. It’s not like she can help it. It’s not like her family’s fortune is any guarantee, either, these days. “Moving up in the world, aren’t you? This is a nice neighbourhood, for what it’s worth.” She looks back at the place she’s lived in since her birth. “Let’s hope you can keep it that way.”

a smile breaks through the general discomfort and sickening anxiety, and he leans a touch closer to her. “well, if it helps, from what i’ve seen of… the industry so far, not everyone is exactly on par with show thorough i like to be. it’s not that you weren’t anonymous, just… not enough.” they offer a shy smile, praying silently to themself that their words aren’t taken the wrong way. “i mean, you know me, not much has changed, still spend way too long in front of a PC. so i think i’ve got pretty good at finding things.”

he wonders if they’re angry at him. for a moment too long, he’s stunned, frozen to the spot and waiting for something else to to show him they’re either definitely mad or not at all. his heart rate only slows when a boot taps his shin. he glances down for a moment, broken from his self inflicted spell and able to crack another subdued smile, a slightly nervous laugh slipping out alongside it. “oh. right. sorry,” he motions to his brain, vague gestures that he hopes she still understands. my brain doesn’t work like it should, he’d say if he there was a brave fibre in their body. but they have always been easier to sit with, dae never had to explain himself with them. “you been good?”

“i assume you don’t have it with you, right? in case i turned out to be dodgy as fuck?” you are dodgy as fuck, they think, you help people rob banks, hardily a law abiding citizen. “yeah, yeah, discreet. i can definitely do discreet. not trying to appear on anyone’s radar.” they glance her once over, laughing softly, “and i especially don’t want to piss you off.” they find it hard to believe most people, but they find it’s easy to believe her. or at least, dae believes dove believes there’s something valuable there, and that’s enough for him. there was a time where seokdae would have followed her with conviction. not blind, wide awake. “you fine taking about it here?” he asks, taking a cautious glance across the room.

There’s a look of agitation on her face, but the displeasure is wholly with themself, rather than with Dae. “Well, I guess I should count my lucky stars that it was you who find me, then. Gotta give me some tips now, though,” she says, trying to swallow the self-anger that comes with failure. But Dove has never been very good at hiding her negative emotions. They hope that Dae doesn’t take whatever expression paints her features personally. Things had changed, since they had last sat near each other, she realises. “So what is it you do behind your PC these days, then?”

She does get it. His motion to his brain, the apology. Usual conversation customs are lost on Dove, but that’s not why she had asked — she’d asked because they’re genuinely curious about Seokdae’s well being, not just as a point of polite back-and-forth, but out of whatever feeling of warmth they held for him, still. “Been a weird few years, but yeah, I’m alright.” On some kind of pointless, idealistic mission that didn’t seem to satiate the gap that grief had made in their body, but that seemed a bit heavy to lay on the table. “You too?”

Dove smirks. “No. Offline, I’m pretty careful. It’s just that technology doesn’t agree with me.” An excuse that’s nonsensical, but one she brings with full conviction. Easier to bluff and puff your chest than fully admit that you lack in certain departments. “Nice, okay, good. And yeah, you don’t want to piss me off.” She grins, but there’s something darker about it. There’s some blood on her hands, now. Righteous red. Her muscles are stronger, these days. “We can talk about it here, yeah. I also live nearby, if you wanna take a look at it. Might be even better.” Inviting Seokdae over to their dingy place could insinuate plenty of things Dove doesn’t want to insinuate, but it seems safer. “Less nosy ears around.”

whatsapp from yasmine: i’ll be home soon, just dropping off some stuff to matt’s

locking his phone, nik slips it into his pocket, quelling the ever present fear that comes with not knowing where his daughters are at all times for a short while. it leaves him unarmed as he unlocks their front door, expecting to walk into the sanctuary they’d built for themselves away from the eyes of any volkov and be welcomed. but instead, he’s met with the business end of a gun barrel. it makes him pause, brows furrowed looking at the wielder. “good evening to you too,” he quips, pushing the door shut slowly. nik’s hesitant, but he follows her order, reaching a little further to flip the lock.

dread begins to set it. first, it’s her words. then he notices the duffle bags on the coffee table, considers how she uncharacteristically aimed her gun at the door. there are few things in this world daya is scared of. but there’s only two bags. and a beer, opened. none of which are signs she’s in any rush to go anywhere. next he thinks of what or who could have tipped her off. did his brother come to scare her in person? or did he send a ghost of their pasts to haunt them?

before he responds to her, he fishes his phone back out, calling yola and pacing while it rings. “you need to come home now—no, it’s an emergency. i mean now. okay? i love you. see you soon.” she hangs up and nik walks over to the bags on the coffee table to check their contents. “tell me everything. how did you find out? how long ago?”

At least meeting the barrel of a gun isn’t something that shakes Volkovs like it might others and there’s a ghost of a smile on Daiyu’s lips as Nik quips at her. “Evening,” she says in return, watching him from where she sets. They have been on the run and in hiding for long enough for her to not have to put everything in exact words. It always seemed like a matter of time until the hammer would fall, until Alexei’s fingers would reach them and mess with their lives once more. But she had grown optimistic, carefully so, hopeful and comfortable and foolish. 

She does not like being the one to break the news to Nik. She dreads having to lay out her plan, when she knows he will meet it with a curt no, when she knows it will be yet another battle. She sips her beer and watches Nik ring Yola, glad that he seems to understand what is going on without her having to explain everything in detail. 

“Vissa stopped by. He wanted to tip us off.” Or rather, probably just her. Daiyu speaks in short sentences, her throat tense and making it hard to be her own, yappy self. “He left about an hour ago, I think.” She nudges one of the bags with her foot. “He knows where we are. So we have to go.” Daiyu swallows, gives a self-aware smile. “Or rather, you should go. That’s what I’m thinking, you and Yola get the fuck out of here and I buy you some time.” She had abandoned her siblings, over a decade ago, and maybe this is what she needs to do to make it right. To return. “And I know what you’re gonna say, but I’ve thought about this, okay?”

It has to be her. Of course. Really, Derrick should’ve known. The elite zip code and the snooty patrons compose a handful of New York’s elite. Even from a brief Google search and a surprisingly extensive Instagram assessment, he’s pegged Genevieve Van Doren to the square hole of her existence. An heiress to the Van Doren banking family, that could put those damn Medici’s to shame. If he is to rest on the side of probability (and the arithmetic lover in him is wrought to do so), he really should’ve known.

Then again - there’s something to be said for the charm of a good surprise. And her face? It’s worth the loss of foresight.

He meets her halfway, descending from the foot of the moving van. A passing hand along his dark denim, brushing away the white ash from the moving boxes. Some things, like his treasured gearbox, are too important to leave to the hands of movers. Even if they are the best movers from his old spot in Brooklyn. “You bake?” His brows furrow, disbelief apparent as he passes an eye on her lithe form. In particular, the soft hands and seemingly fragile arms. He can’t imagine her putting pressure on a rolling pin, or meticulously measuring baking powder to flour ratios.

“With my dads. They always dreamed of moving into this street. But listings are few and far between.” Old, well-to-do New Yorkers often kept to their familiar homes. The provenance of the townhouses are real to this day. Minus the Woodsen’s, who are foreign to this particularly exclusive street. “And we needed a garage big enough for our cars, obviously.” And if New York is known for anything, it’s the lack of parking spaces. Derrick manages a glance back to the townhouse across the way, with its Victorian fringes and staple iron. “You really grew up in places like these, huh?” He asks rhetorically, while managing to reach for his worn leather messenger bag.

“Well, neighbor, let’s take a walk. I’m saving chocolate chip pancakes for after, well,” he gestures between them, the trademark innuendo dancing on the tip of his tongue. “We get to know each other better.” He says, in feigned innocence. A flagrant blink of the eye, and a tilt of his head down the street.

She’s Googled him too, of course. There had been a lot of nonsense that hadn’t surprised her ( a leaked nude, a TikTok account with humour that seemed boyish to her, a few tabloid articles ) besides the fact that he wasn’t a nobody. Articles on him in the MIT newsletter, however, had most definitely surprised her, though in a positive sense. It didn’t push her towards reflecting on her own inhibitions and why they were there, but it did make her feel a bit more confident about this collaboration.

That doesn’t mean she likes him nor that she’s pleased about him moving into her street. This is her sanctuary, her corner of New York, and she does not need someone like Derrick Woodsen to move in next door. His question at her abilities as a baker make her close her eyes just so she doesn’t visibly roll them. “Yes.” Play nice, she reminds herself. “It relaxes me. And welcoming new neighbours, well that’s just common courtesy.” 

She files away the information, nodding. It’s good, that his dads are with him: that way her welcome-to-the-neighbourhood baked goods won’t be just for Derrick. “Well, congratulations on moving here, then. To them, too.” Genevieve spares another glance to the car. “You drive in the city?” She can’t imagine it, dealing with the traffic, her driver’s license mostly gathering dust. But then, the assumption that everyone has a driver is just more proof of her lofty position in society. “The townhouse has been in my family for centuries.” Since it had been built, actually. “So yes.” There’s a beat, and she realises that maybe it might be polite to return the question, even if it had been rhetorical. “What about you?”

The innuendo is met with a roll of her eyes, but Genevieve reigns her sharp tongue in. “Wonderful. It’ll be good to get my daily steps in.” Something she had, admittedly, would have preferred to do by herself.

sorry. she’s sorry. it’s a disarming word for vissarion having never been part of the volkov vocabulary. but if there’s one thing he does know about his youngest sister, is she’s no pretender. but giving those words truthfulness and honesty make them all the more difficult to swallow. he looks as if words are stuck in his throat, expecting to choke on them but miraculously breathing still, waiting for reality and breathlessness to claim him.

instead of processing the emotions that fly around the inside of his skull, vissa does what’s easy. he gives into the anger her words ignite. “stood by you? are you fucking insane, daiyu? to stand by anyone is to get them killed, why the fuck would i have ever done that for you? i tried. so fucking hard. to catch his attention, so he’d forget about you and inna as much as he ever could. and then you start being all—” he makes vague explosive motions with his hands before he rakes them both down his face with frustration. why does he spend every minute of his damn day fighting for a family that will never understand him? then she says that’s word again. sorry. “you’ve only ever wronged me once. the rest of it wasn’t you. don’t say sorry for him.” it almost sounds like an order, if vissa really had any authority in him. “what i never quite could wrap my head around, though, is why you didn’t take her. i get not telling me, okay? i get it. but why not inna? because dad made you play a game and she won? how did nik know where to find you that night? who else in the world knew what house you were burning up in? so why the fuck didn’t you take her?” his words are harsher, venomous, aimed directly at her heart.

“before you started opening your mouth. it was fine. as good as it was ever gonna be. he ignored both of you. it was just me, i was getting all of it. i thought, oh, they’ll understand. i can’t risk telling them, but they’ll understand. sometimes, sometimes, i think inna gets it. then i remember she’s been a liar every day of her damn life. but you. not only did you not fucking get it, you pissed on it and set fire to it. so i got fucking tired, if you wanted to get beat up so bad, who was i to stand in your way. besides, what have you ever done for me?” vissa takes a deep, slow breath, breaking eye contact to rub the palm of his hand into his eye socket. next comes a humourless laugh. “no, daiyu, christ. in fact, i think he wants you least. at least if he has nik or yolandi, you’ll run right into his traps. so don’t get fucking caught. or more importantly, don’t let them get caught.”

Suddenly, she feels foolish. Stupid. It’s a feeling she hasn’t felt in quite some time, in all truth, an emotion that reminds her – like so much does, right now – of childhood. Of having two siblings so much smarter than her overshadow, with her brain never seeming to be on quite the same level as theirs. Vissa turns to anger, to venom that he attempts to aim at her chest, and while she feels the daggers being pushed into her organs, she also feels the startling realisation that she had been wrong. About him. About his intentions. Had she been so blinded by her feeling of righteousness, her anger, her loneliness, that she couldn’t see it?

“I’m sorry I’m not good at playing the mental gymnastic-four-dimensional-chess that all of you seem so fucking fond of. When I do something for any reason, I’m pretty fucking clear about why I do it,” she bites, her intentions and heart both worn on her sleeve. “Whenever I tried to get the three of us to work together, there was no ulterior motive, there was nothing besides me — I just wanted you on my side, for me to be on yours. He wouldn’t have killed all three of us.” She is growing tired, remembering the years of her childhood that she has marked as Do Not Think Of in her mind, trying to paint a more correct picture now that Vissa colours the picture with his intentions, too. It’s like trying to put two puzzle pieces together that simply don’t fit. “So maybe I didn’t fucking get it, no, because you were really fucking convincing in your role. You never, you never thought to maybe talk to me straightforward?”

Mention of Inna has her muscles grow taut. She feels the smoke on her tongue again. The burning building. That it had been Inna that pointed Nik in her direction isn’t something she understands, but it sounds true enough. “Do you think it was up to me? If it had been, I would have dragged both of you with us even if it had been a lia-fucking-bility, but it wasn’t. I was a kid. I was a kid and Nik offered me a way out and I took it and every day since I’ve lived with the guilt of leaving you behind.” She grows quieter when she adds, “But I would have died before turning eighteen if I’d stayed. You know that. I know that.” Either at Alexei’s hand or her own. Maybe even at Vissa’s, if their father had demanded it of him. Daiyu listens to Vissa, registering his words but deciding to do nothing with them. If Alexei wanted his hands on them, he could have one of them. “Right. Okay. Thank you for the head’s up and not much else besides it, then.”