You awoke almost immediately after fainting to Viktor nervously shaking your shoulder. You sat up slowly, blinked away the flashing lights from your vision, and allowed yourself to be pulled to your feet by him. There seemed to be an uneasy haze to the world. Everything seemed not real or too real. Either shifting and uncertain, or stark and overwhelming.

It was in what was almost a trance that you somehow managed to make it back to Piltover. Looking back on it all, you could only remember fleeting snippets and sensations: uneven breaths coming hoarse from your throat; pot-holed cobbles beneath your feet; Viktor's firm grip keeping you upright; a hot, sticky feeling clinging to the back of your neck.

You came to your senses just as you crossed the bridge connecting the two halves of the city. By then the adrenaline had worn off, and the pain was beginning to set in. The blow to the back of your head throbbed in time to your heartbeat, along with the bruise to your temple.

Every spot seemed to suddenly be a very appealing resting point; the side of the pavement, a low stone wall. Still, every time you slowed, Viktor gave your arm an impatient yet encouraging squeeze. Some part of you managed to will your legs forwards, forwards, forwards, bribed with the promise of something more.

It was nearing midday now, and the streets were gradually growing busy. Viktor attempted avoid the crowds by taking quieter routes, but nowhere was completely devoid of prying passersby. Even in your borderline delirious state, you knew to keep your head bowed to avoid curious glances.

That, and you were pretty sure you'd throw up if you moved any more than necessary.

You managed to catch glimpses of yourself reflection in shop windows as you passed by. The reflection that stared back was seemed far from the person you had been only hours before. A stranger. Dazed, bruised and wide-eyed.

"Not much further," Viktor assured every so often, when your pace grew slack, when your steps began to falter. "We're nearly back."

Each time you managed no more than a weak hum in reply. Speaking would definitely result in your vomiting. Or crying. Or both. You'd rather drop dead on the spot.

Despite his encouraging words, the distance to wherever he was taking you - his house, you realized as you began to recognize the streets and buildings - seemed infinitely further than before. You were sore-footed and close to keeling over when the familiar white-blue building finally came into view.

You rested your forehead against the sun-warmed wood of the door, taking a moment to steady your breathing, as Viktor fumbled through his pockets in search for the key. It was a pleasant day, weather-wise. Not noticably hot, but warm enough to not need a coat. In the midst of summer, sunny days lost the novelty they held in winter. If you hadn't been busy pissing off drunkards and getting your ass beat in the Undercity, you probably would've been going for a nice walk around about then.

But you weren't.

"What was that thing you said earlier?" you said, then cleared your throat. It was the first time you'd spoken more than one word on the whole journey, and your voice had grown rough. The very effort of speaking seemed to suck the very air from your chest, making everything feel as though you were moving through treacle.

Viktor blinked, hand paused midway between him and the keyhole. "What?"

"Y'know, that bad joke," you prompted. "'The Grim Reaper and a mad scientist go into the Undercity', that one." You exhaled a short laugh. It came out more of a groan. "Ironic. I didn't know you were into prophecies."

It took him a moment to realize what you were implying. He shut his eyes, rubbing a hand across his brow. "You're not going to die, Y/N. It's just a-" The look he cast at your forehead finished his sentence for him. Creased brow. Darkened eyes. You were glad you couldn't see the bump yourself.

"Plus," he said, opening the door and ushering you inside, "that is a terrible punchline. Not funny in the slightest."

You feigned a wince. "Ouch. If these injuries don't kill me first, your criticism will."

He sighed. "I don't understand how you can still joke at a time like this."

"I may be losing blood, but I'll never lose my sense of humor, eh?"

As if on cue, the world spun as you took a step forwards. You felt yourself lose balance, though could barely see past the blur of black clouding your vision.

Before you could meet the ground, a steadying hand appeared on the small of your back, another on your shoulder. You straightened slowly and pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, murmuring a small thanks. You allowed yourself to be lead into one of the rooms adjoining the entrance. When you finally managed to raise your head, you saw you were in a kitchen.

It was a long but relatively narrow room, with panelled walls and tall windows. On one side a long countertop and cabinets ran the length of the room. Opposite was a set of table and chairs. Everything looked spotless and sparse; too clean to be used regularly.

Viktor guided you to a chair, which you practically collapsed upon, then began to search through the cupboards, pulling out jars and vials. He process was seemingly at random, though the way he scrutinised the messy labels suggested there was some order to it. He set them down on the tabletop.

You tried to read the writing on each of them, but it was barely legible, and the vague words that you could make out provided no insight towards the contents. They were each carefully filled with a variety of ointments and creams, ranging from a dark green liquid in one to a shimmery, sleek gel in another.

After retrieving the final thing - a thick roll of muslin bandages - he sat down on the chair next to you. You turned to face him, but he gestured for you to keep sitting forwards.

"If it's alright with you," he asked, idly pushing the vials into a neat line, "would I be able to offer some treatment for your injuries? It'd be nothing too severe - just to reduce risk of infection and the like."

"Please." You nodded, but the movement caused the injury at back of your head to throb dizzyingly. you hissed through your teeth.

You heard Viktor make a disapproving sound. A hand came to rest on your shoulder, and gave a small - if somewhat awkward - pat.

Once you recovered enough to be able to sit upright again, Viktor began his work. He carefully pushed your hair aside, then sucked in a breath as he inspected the wound.

"That bad?" you asked.

"Eh, it's... just a scratch." He didn't sound very convincing.

You sat still as he applied a variety of ointments and creams, biting down on your tongue to stop yourself from wincing. You soon began to taste iron. Each touch he made was gentle and measured, but still sent bolts of pain shooting across your skull.

"I'm sorry," he said softly when you finally couldn't suppress a flinch. By his tone you knew that he was apologizing for more than the pain.

"It's not your fault Viktor," you said. Your voice wavered, and you waited for the throbbing to subside. He inhaled in preparation to protest, but you continued. "You weren't the one who did... this."

He was quiet for a moment. His chair freaked as he sat back. "I was the one who let it happen."

You rolled your eyes, though he couldn't see it. "You literally concussed the guy, for gods' sake. I wouldn't exactly call you an ignorant bystander."

"I- No, but..." He sighed. There was a light thunk as he rested an elbow on the table, his palm pressed to his forehead. "I never should have asked you to come."

"Well..." He had a point. But. "I did, anyway. And I would've, regardless of you telling me or not." You turned and looked at him, and his eyes hesitantly met yours. "If it hadn't been me that got hurt, it would have- could have been you."

"But then you would be fine."

"And you wouldn't be."

You both sat in silence. Until then, your injuries had been an excuse to avoid the inevitable, but now that you had recovered - at least enough to not be in imminent risk - you had to finally face up to it all. You had to talk.

Viktor absentmindedly toyed with the lid of one of the jars, rolling it between his fingers. He looked as weary as you'd ever seen him. There were a million things you wanted to say, yet they refused to push past your lips.

It was Viktor who finally broke the silence. His voice was small and laced with concern when he asked, "What did he do?"

He didn't need to clarify who 'he' was.

When you opened your mouth to respond, you were surprised to find that a lump of tears had formed in your throat. You rubbed a hand over your eyes, which felt suddenly hot and heavy.

"Nothing... nothing bad," you said, pausing for a moment when your voice caught. "I mean, obviously, he did this but... I suppose I sort of deserved it."

Viktor looked almost appalled. "You deserve nothing of what happened to you, Y/N. No one would."

"I kicked him between the legs."

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"I mean... I'm sure he deserved it."

Despite your growing urge to cry, you laughed. A tear fell loose as you did so. You pressed the tips of your fingers to your eyes before any more could follow.

You heard a rustle of fabric, as if Viktor had made to move forwards. You looked up. His hand hovered above your shoulder, mere millimeters away from making contact. He stared at it, hesitant, but when he saw you watching, his hand quickly returned to his lap.

He cleared his throat. "Why was he even bothering you in the first place? I didn't see him before I went in."

"He wanted money, I think. He knew that I was from up here, somehow. That really pissed him off... I think he wanted to just scare me, almost." You gave a sad laugh. "It worked.

Viktor have a short hum in response. He folded his arms, lost somewhere in his thoughts. For the first time since you got back, you noticed something.

"Where's the equipment you got?" you asked. You hadn't seen him with any of it, and the satchel he had discarded upon entry looked empty.

Something dark clouded his eyes. "It wasn't in stock," he said. "The shopkeep claimed we had agreed for it to be picked up on a later date, but I know that wasn't true. We agreed upon today, I know we did." He sighed. "All for nothing."

Your frowned, though not just at the unfairness of it all. Something was forming - a thought, a theory. You could almost see it: a speck of flickering gold amongst the mists of your mind.

"You don't think..." You trailed off, attempting to form the jumble of wordless thoughts into something legible.

"What?"

Suddenly the murky mind-fog left over from the attack dissipated, leaving your thoughts bright and whirring. "What if... The shop keeper knew you were coming, right?"

"Right."

"And he didn't know I was coming?"

"Yes."

"I'm not sure where the man that attacked me came from, but he was definitely nearby at the time - just across the street, I think. In the shadows."

Viktor cocked his head as he followed along, listening but not yet understanding.

"He had a weapon," you suddenly remembered. "On his hand - brass knuckles- knuckle dusters, or whatever. Those things. Is that a common thing down there, for people to just casually wear stuff like that?"

"Not that I remember. People carry means of protection, yes, but often only openly display them if anticipating a fight."

He waited for you to continue, but you stared at him expectantly. You watched as things began to click together for him. You could practically hear the cogs turning behind his eyes. Then- click! It all fit into place.

His eyes widened. "Are you saying you think it was planned?" he said, incredulous. "That he- that they intended to-" He ran a hand down his face. "Why, though?

Your thinking hadn't reached that far yet. "I don't know. It's just a theory but-" You shrugged "-it seems too..."

"Too much of a coincidence."

"Yeah." You let out a slow breath.

He thought for a moment, eyes glazed. A new crease of worry had formed between his brows. "If what you say has some truth to it, there may be something larger than petty street crime at play here. But what the motive could be... I don't know. Do you remember anything significant the man said to you?"

You thought - hard - but truly couldn't remember other than slurred words and clumsy movements. "I don't know."

He huffed and reached for the bottle of ointment and replaced the lid. You thought that that was the conversation over, until he spoke up again.

"I should never have brought you into all of this in the first place," he said. "I never anticipated anything like this to happen, but I shouldn't have been so naïve. I'm so sorry."

It broke something within you to see him like this, the weight of guilt so evident on his shoulders. Without overthinking it, you reached out and placed your hand over his. He froze, suddenly still, as if your touch was capable of turning skin to stone.

"Viktor," you said softly, "it's not your fault. Really, it's not," you added when he began to interrupt. "What's done is done, and it might not be the most... ideal out come of things, but no amount of apologies can change the past."

He nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on your layered hands. Though you didn't want to, you returned your hand to your pocket. He stared at the empty space for a moment longer, then did the same.

"Plus," you added, tone lighter, "if you apologize any more, I will literally drag you to the Academy right now and tell Heimerdinger all about how you've been gallivanting around the Undercity and forcing helpless civilians into aiding in your illegal schemes."

"I thought you were insisting you accompanied me by your own accord two moments ago."

"That's against my point." You folded your arms, feigning severity but struggling not to laugh. "I'm incredibly serious."

He raised his eyebrows, suppressing a humoured smile. "Genuinely?"

"Very."

He grinned, unable to restrain it anymore, then slowly said, "...Sorry?"