Zaun smelled like progress rotting from the inside out.
TF descended through three levels of rusted catwalks, following directions a fence had sold him for twice what they were worth. Chem-haze clung to everything—green fog that tasted metallic and made his eyes water. Above, Piltover gleamed like a promise nobody down here could afford. Below, the Sump churned with toxic runoff and desperate innovation.
The fence had called it the "genius district." TF called it a death trap with ambition.
He found the workshop entrance behind a broken ventilation shaft, marked only by spray-painted Firelights symbols that probably meant something to locals. The door was reinforced scrap metal with a lock that looked homemade and complicated.
TF knocked. Waited. Knocked again.
"It's open," a voice called from inside. Young. Impatient. "But if you're from Piltover enforcement, just know I rigged the door."
"Not enforcement." TF tested the handle. Not rigged—the kid was bluffing. "Name's Twisted Fate. Here about a job."
"Don't need work. Got plenty."
"Job that pays."
Pause. "Door's open."
The workshop was organized chaos. Workbenches covered in tech components, walls plastered with blueprints and equations, bioluminescent fungi providing sickly green light. In the center, hunched over a device that hummed with chrono-energy, sat the kid from the dossier.
Ekko didn't look up. "Twisted Fate. The card guy from Bilgewater. Heard about you."
"All good things, I hope."
"You conned a Piltover councilor out of fifty thousand hex. Used it to fund a gang war that you bet on. Made triple." Ekko's hands kept working, adjusting components with practiced precision. "Impressive. Also makes you a bastard."
TF smiled. He liked this kid already. "Guilty. What're you working on?"
"Chronodrive recalibration. Z-Drive keeps glitching at six seconds. Should get seven, maybe eight." Ekko finally looked up. White mohawk, bright eyes that had seen too much for nineteen, hands scarred from tinkering and fighting. "But you're not here to talk about my tech."
"Actually, I am." TF pulled a chair—overturned crate—and sat without invitation. "That thing on your back. Rewinds time, yeah?"
Ekko's expression went carefully neutral. "Who told you that?"
"I know people who know things." TF pulled the Queen of Hearts, let it hover between his fingers with a shimmer of magic. "I'm putting together a crew. Need someone who can navigate the impossible. Someone who gets second chances."
"Second chances." Something dark flickered across Ekko's face. "Yeah. Sure."
"You're young, you're brilliant, and you've got tech that breaks physics." TF leaned forward. "Also, you're broke. This workshop? Held together with hope and stolen parts. One bad raid from Piltover, and you lose everything."
"Get to the point."
"Noxus. Victory Festival. Six weeks." TF dealt three cards face-up on the workbench: King of Spades, Eight of Diamonds, Tower. "Vault job. Hardest score in Valoran. Also the highest paying."
Ekko's hands finally stopped moving. "You want to rob Noxus."
"Want is a strong word. Need, more like."
"During their biggest celebration, when the entire military is on high alert." Ekko laughed—sharp, disbelieving. "You're insane."
"Probably." TF gathered the cards. "But I'm also desperate. Which means I'm offering desperate money. Fifty thousand hex, your share. Plus equipment upgrades—I got connections with suppliers who can get you components Piltover doesn't sell to Zaunites."
Fifty thousand would fund the Firelights for a year. TF watched that calculation happen behind Ekko's eyes, saw the exact moment temptation hooked in.
"What's the target?" Ekko asked.
"Artifact. Shuriman. Temporal magic."
"Temporal—" Ekko's eyes widened. "Wait. You're after the Chronolith Shard?"
TF kept his expression neutral. "You know it?"
"Read about it in stolen archives. Fragment of time magic from pre-Ascension Shurima. Supposed to let you—" Ekko stopped. Looked at TF differently. "Let you change the past. One moment. One choice."
"That's the one."
Silence. The workshop hummed. Somewhere above, Piltover machinery ground through another cycle of production. Down here, two people sat across a workbench covered in broken attempts at controlling time.
"Why?" Ekko asked quietly. "What choice do you need to change that badly?"
TF had prepared for this question. Had a dozen lies ready. But something about the kid's expression—haunted, hungry, understanding—made him answer with partial truth.
"Made a mistake five years back. Cost me someone I cared about." He pulled a card—Three of Swords—and held it up. "You ever do that? Ruin something good because you were scared it'd ruin you first?"
Ekko's jaw tightened. He turned back to his Z-Drive, hands resuming their work with mechanical intensity. "Yeah. I've done that."
"Then you understand."
"Understanding doesn't mean I'm in." But Ekko's voice carried less conviction. "Noxus isn't some Piltover vault. They kill thieves. Publicly. As examples."
"They kill failures." TF stood, leaving the Queen of Hearts on the workbench. "I don't plan on failing. Got three other specialists lined up. Combat expert, social infiltrator, demo specialist. Add your time tech, and we might actually survive this."
"Might."
"Better odds than staying here until Piltover decides you're too much trouble."
Ekko flinched. TF had done his homework—knew about the increased enforcer raids, knew the Firelights were on borrowed time, knew Ekko needed an exit strategy or a miracle.
"One week," Ekko said finally. "Give me one week to think."
"You got three days. After that, I find someone else." TF headed for the door, coat swirling. "Clock's ticking, kid. Fitting, given your specialty."
"Wait." Ekko's voice stopped him. "The Chronolith. If it works—if we actually get it—who uses it?"
TF had prepared for this question too. But Ekko was smart enough to spot a lie.
"That's the fun part," TF said. "We figure that out after."
He left before Ekko could ask more questions. Behind him, the Z-Drive's hum intensified—probably Ekko stress-testing again, trying to squeeze out that extra second of rewind.
Trying to prove he could save the things that mattered.
TF understood that impulse better than he'd ever admit.
---
The next two recruitments went faster.
Samira found him first—corner table at a Noxian exile bar in Bilgewater, three days after he'd put out careful feelers through mercenary channels. She walked in like she owned the place, red eyepatch catching light, twin pistols visible at her hips.
She sat down without asking.
"Heard you're looking for someone who knows Noxian security." Her accent carried Shuriman warmth underneath Noxian sharpness. "I know it. Intimately."
"You're former Trifarian Legion."
"Former being the key word." She signaled the bartender—two fingers, shorthand for something strong. "You're planning something stupid in the capital. During Victory Festival. I want in."
TF studied her. The file said she'd left Noxus under a cloud, details classified. But she held herself like someone trained to kill and comfortable with the choice.
"Why?" he asked.
"Money. Boredom. Revenge." She smiled—all teeth, no warmth. "Pick whichever makes you feel better about hiring me."
"I need someone reliable."
"You need someone who can navigate the Crimson Court without getting their throat cut. Who knows guard rotations and noble protocols. Who can fight their way through a Trifarian squad if things go sideways." The drinks arrived. She downed hers in one motion. "That's me."
"You left Noxus because...?"
"Because I made a choice they didn't like." Her fingers traced the rim of the empty glass. "Turns out mercy is a crime in the empire of strength. Who knew?"
The bitterness in her voice was real. So was something else—regret? Anger? Hard to parse.
"Fifty thousand hex," TF said. "Plus expenses. We go in during festival, extract the target, get out clean."
"Nothing's clean in Noxus." But she extended her hand. "I'm in."
They shook. Her grip could've crushed stone.
---
Seraphine was performing at an outdoor venue in Piltover when TF found her. Small crowd—pre-festival publicity tour—but she commanded attention like gravity commanded falling.
Her voice did things that shouldn't be possible. Harmonics that made your chest ache, notes that bypassed ears and went straight to whatever part of you felt things too deeply. The crowd swayed, mesmerized.
TF waited until after. Caught her backstage, surrounded by hextech equipment and manager types having frantic discussions about scheduling.
"Miss Seraphine? Moment of your time?"
She turned, and he felt it immediately—that empathic perception from the dossier. Her eyes widened slightly, seeing something in him he tried to keep hidden.
"You're in pain," she said softly. Not a question.
"Aren't we all?" TF pulled a card—Empress—and offered it. "Name's Twisted Fate. I have a proposition."
The managers tried to intervene. She waved them off, took the card, studied it. "This isn't about a performance, is it?"
"Different kind of performance. Higher stakes. Much better pay."
She looked at him for a long moment. He felt her ability brush against his emotions—not invasive, more like testing temperature. She frowned.
"You're desperate. And guilty." Her voice stayed gentle despite the accusation. "What did you do?"
"Something I need to fix." TF kept his voice level. "I need someone who can navigate high society. Someone people trust on sight. Someone who can feel when things are about to go wrong."
"You need a thief with perfect pitch."
"Basically."
Seraphine's fingers traced the card's edges. Around them, her team continued their logistics dance, oblivious to the actual conversation happening.
"How dangerous?" she asked.
"Extremely. But I got safety measures. Good crew. Plan that might actually work." He paused. "And if you're interested in changing something about your past—really changing it—I can make that happen too."
Her composure cracked. Just for a second, but TF caught it—the flash of desperate want.
"What do you mean?" Her voice barely audible.
"The target we're extracting. Temporal artifact. Changes personal history." He let that sink in. "One moment. One choice. Different outcome."
Seraphine's hand trembled. She steadied it with visible effort. "That's... that's not possible."
"It is in Noxus. Locked in their vault. And I'm getting it in six weeks."
She was quiet for so long TF thought he'd miscalculated. Then:
"I'm in." Simple. Final. "Whatever you need."
"Just your voice and your empathy." TF started to leave, then stopped. "And Seraphine? Whatever choice you want to change—don't tell the others. Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because we all got secrets. And some secrets keep people alive."
---
Three recruited. Two to go.
Ekko sent word on day two: I'm in. But we talk terms face-to-face.
Samira was already coordinating with TF on Noxian intel, feeding him details about layout changes since she'd left.
Seraphine had canceled the rest of her tour—manager having an aneurysm—and was working on cover stories for her sudden trip east.
The crew was coming together.
Which left one name on the list TF had been avoiding.
Malcolm Graves.
TF stood outside a Bilgewater warehouse where Graves supposedly took demolition jobs. Rain had started again, because of course it had. He held a card—King of Hearts—and wondered if walking through that door was the stupidest thing he'd ever do.
Probably not. He had a long list of stupid.
But this was definitely top five.
TF took a breath, squared his shoulders, and went to face the man he'd betrayed.
The man who had every right to kill him.