Abel trudged through the narrow alleys of Zaun, where the air was thick with the stench of rust, chemicals, and dampness. His steps echoed in the emptiness of the sewer tunnels, where he was accustomed to hiding between jobs. His eyes, red as glowing embers, vigilantly scanned the surrounding darkness. He was no longer the child who trembled in the "Silent Abyss" or sought solace in a Piltover orphanage. Zaun had forged him into something else—neither man nor beast, but something in between, teetering on the edge.
His new life under Silco was a string of assignments he carried out with cold precision. Silco, with his sharp mind and venomous words, saw Abel as a tool—sharp as a blade and just as dangerous. But Abel wasn't blind. He knew Silco played his own game, and as long as their goals aligned, Abel was willing to follow. Today was no exception.
"Contraband for the Upper City," Silco had said the night before, tossing a battered package onto the table. "Shimmer samples. Deliver them to the Clarimond estate. Don't screw this up, Abel. These people pay in gold, and we need gold."
Abel merely nodded, sparing no words. He was used to such tasks. Shimmer samples—small vials of shimmering purple liquid—were the currency binding Zaun and Piltover. The Upper City's wealthy, craving new thrills, paid fortunes for them without asking questions. Abel knew shimmer ruined their lives just as it would eventually ruin Zaun once obstacles like Vander were gone, but he didn't care. His only concern was his goal—to grow stronger, to survive, perhaps to settle old scores. He wasn't even sure what drove him anymore.
He left Silco's hideout, slinging the package over his shoulder. The night was cold, and a thick fog, reeking of chemicals, hung over Zaun. The smugglers Silco assigned to him waited at the entrance to the mid-levels. Two of them: a scrawny guy called Rusty and a broad-shouldered brute in a decent-for-Zaun suit, known as Fang. Both were typical Zaunite scum—greedy, crude, but useful if kept on a short leash.
"Well, freak, ready to crawl into Piltover's jaws?" Rusty grinned, adjusting his tattered hat. His teeth were yellow, his gaze as slippery as a rat's.
Abel didn't respond. He shot Rusty a cold look that made him step back instinctively. Fang snorted but stayed silent. They knew better than to mess with Abel. His reputation in Zaun was growing, like blood-red flowers blooming where he spilled blood.
The path to the Upper City was familiar. Through abandoned mines, past rusted pipes and toxic puddles, they reached the lift that carried them to the surface. The lift creaked like an old beast, and Abel, standing in the corner, watched Zaun vanish below, giving way to Piltover's gleaming towers. Even at night, the city sparkled—golden lights, glass facades, clean streets. But Abel knew the same filth as Zaun's lurked behind this facade, just wrapped in prettier packaging.
The Clarimond estate, belonging to yet another wealthy merchant family, stood on a hill, surrounded by wrought-iron gates and manicured gardens. Abel and his companions slipped through the backyard, where tree shadows hid them from patrols. Under normal circumstances, this would've been impossible, but the estate's owner had conveniently left a "back exit" open. Rusty deftly picked the lock on the rear door, and they found themselves in a dark pantry smelling of spices and wax.
"Sounds like the party's in full swing," Fang whispered, nodding toward the music and laughter drifting from the main hall. "The Clarimonds are having fun."
"We don't need to go there," Abel cut him off. "Leave the goods in the study, as instructed. Then we leave."
But Rusty, as usual, couldn't resist. His eyes gleamed when he noticed a slightly open door to a wardrobe, where silk suits and gem-encrusted dresses hung.
"Hey, freak, look at these threads!" he hissed, rubbing his hands. "Why not grab something? No one'll notice."
Abel frowned, but something stirred in his chest. He remembered the orphanage, where Lina and Erik dreamed of fine clothes, of a life they'd never have. He stepped toward the wardrobe, his fingers brushing the soft fabric of a navy-blue coat. For a moment, he imagined himself in it—not a monster, not Silco's weapon, but someone else. Someone who could belong in this world of light.
He didn't notice the door creak behind him. Three pairs of eyes—a maid, a cook, and a footman—stared at the intruders in horror. Abel turned too late. The maid screamed, her cry echoing down the corridor.
"Damn it!" Rusty snarled, drawing a knife. Fang lunged for the door, but Abel was already moving.
His movements were lightning-fast, almost inhuman. He didn't want to kill, but instincts fueled by shimmer and Zaun took over. The first blow landed on the footman—a faint crack of neck vertebrae. The maid tried to run, but Abel grabbed her arm, his razor-sharp claws sinking into her flesh. She fell, choking on blood. The cook, trembling, raised a kitchen knife, but Abel was faster. One swipe, and the man slumped to the floor, eyes empty.
Silence fell as abruptly as the scream. Rusty and Fang stood frozen, their faces pale. Abel stared at his blood-covered hands, feeling the shimmer pulse in his veins, drowning out emotion. But deep inside, something stung—a memory of Lina, her kindness, the way she looked at him when he was still human.
"Let's go," he said quietly, wiping the blood on the coat he never wore.
They left the shimmer samples in the study as ordered and vanished into the night. But the image of three dead bodies haunted Abel. He felt no guilt—Zaun had burned that out of him. But he felt… emptiness. As if each death took a piece of who he once was. He couldn't bring himself to feel guilt for their lives; he was certain it wouldn't even surface. After all, if the estate's owner knew who they'd seen, he'd likely have done the same.
The next morning, Silco summoned him to his hideout—an old factory reeking of oil and smoke. Abel reported on the job, omitting the incident at the estate. Silco, as always, watched him with a faint smile, as if he knew more than he let on. It was likely just collateral damage and client oversight to him.
"Good," Silco said, tapping his fingers on the table. "But we have another problem. Baron Tagus, a newcomer down here, thinks he can skip the tax on his 'goods' to Piltover. Convince him it's a mistake."
Abel nodded. He was used to such tasks. Zaun's barons were greedy but cowardly. Usually, his mere presence was enough to remind them of the "tax." But Tagus likely hadn't yet learned the rules.
The meeting was set at an abandoned warehouse on Zaun's outskirts. Abel knew ignoring the summons wasn't an option; it would be seen as weakness. Tagus, a fat man with gilded chains around his neck, was surrounded by a dozen thugs. His eyes narrowed when he saw Abel.
"What's this, Silco sent his monster?" he chuckled, but his voice betrayed nervousness.
Abel didn't respond. Rolling his eyes slightly, he stepped forward, removing his mask, and the air around him shimmered. His shimmer-enhanced abilities created a cloud of toxic mist, far more than his lungs should produce. Tagus's thugs charged, but their movements were slow, clumsy. Abel moved like a shadow, his claws tearing through flesh, blood splattering the warehouse walls. Within minutes, it was over. Tagus, on his knees, begged for mercy.
"Tell Silco I'll pay," he rasped, clutching a bleeding wound on his shoulder.
Abel leaned close, his red eyes glowing in the dark. "You'll pay. And you won't forget."
He left Tagus in a pool of his own blood. Another routine victory. But with each task, he felt the shimmer, that corrosive toxin, sinking deeper into his mind, numbing his emotions, turning him into a machine. Something had to be done.
The Upper City was different. When Abel went there for another job, he lingered. Autumn had come to Piltover, and the streets were strewn with rust-colored leaves that crunched underfoot. Parks where children played and bards sang of love and freedom felt alien yet alluring. He often climbed to the rooftops of tall buildings to watch the city from above. There, in the quiet, he could briefly forget Zaun, the blood, and what lay ahead.
One evening, perched on a rooftop, he watched workers decorate a square for the autumn festival. Golden lanterns, vibrant flags, the scent of mulled wine and fresh pies—it all felt like a dream, an illusion Piltover crafted to hide its true nature. He knew the money behind this festival came from Zaun's pain, from shimmer, from death. But in those moments, he felt an odd peace. The shimmer in his blood surged, demanding action, but he forced himself to sit still, breathing the crisp autumn air.
"Pretty, isn't it?" a voice said behind him.
Abel spun around, his mind snapping back to the present. He'd been so caught up in the kaleidoscope of Piltover's festival below—golden lanterns, laughter, the scent of spiced wine—that he hadn't heard the soft scuff of boots on the rooftop. His red eyes, faintly glowing in the dim light, locked onto the figure standing behind him: Vi, her silhouette sharp against the city lights, arms crossed, a cocky smirk on her face. Behind her peeked Powder, her blue hair glinting in the lantern light, eyes sparkling with mischief and curiosity. Flanking them were two others—Claggor, broad-shouldered and stoic, goggles pushed up on his forehead, and Mylo, wiry and jittery, fingers tapping the hilt of a knife at his belt. Vi's crew, trouble wrapped in leather and bravado, had caught him in a rare moment of solitude.
"Well, well, look who's playing tourist," Vi's voice carried her usual mockery, tinged with something warmer, like she was testing him but didn't mean harm. She stepped closer, her boots crunching on the rooftop gravel, pink hair swaying in the breeze. "Didn't expect to see you here. Word on the street says you're the star of Zaun's scariest bedtime stories."
Abel didn't move, his posture tense, one hand resting on the parapet. His red eyes scanned the group, assessing. Vi's crew wasn't here to fight. He sensed the intensity of their gazes—a mix of wariness and curiosity, but not fear. Powder, clinging to Vi, tilted her head, her wide eyes studying him like a puzzle she couldn't solve. Claggor was silent, his bulk a quiet warning, while Mylo's restless energy screamed of a fight ready to spark. Normally, kids their age would be on edge or at least cautious.
"Don't call me that," Abel sighed heavily, his voice surprisingly soft, like a spring breeze. He hated the label. In normal circumstances, he'd have cut off the hand or leg of anyone daring to say it to his face. "What do you want, Vi?"
Vi raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening as she leaned casually but calculatedly against a rusted vent pipe. "Relax, red-eyes. We're not here to scrap. Just saw you looking all brooding and thought we'd say hi. Neighborly-like." She nodded at Powder, who was now crouched at the roof's edge, gazing at the festival below with childlike wonder. "Powder spotted you first. Said you looked lonely… and oddly familiar."
Abel's gaze flicked to Powder, who glanced back and offered a shy smile before turning back to the golden glow below. "I'm not lonely," he said flatly, his words final. He didn't need their pity, especially not from Vi's ragtag family. But something in Powder's expression—naive, unguarded—stirred a memory: Lina's smile at the orphanage, when he was still… him. He pushed the thought down, letting the shimmer in his veins smother it.
"Sure you're not," Mylo piped up, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he stepped closer, tossing a small knife in his hand. "Big scary attack dog of Silco's, just sitting on a rooftop dreaming of cotton candy and carnival games. Real convincing." He stopped a few steps away, squinting. "What's your deal, huh?"
"Shut it, Mylo," Claggor growled, his voice calm but firm, a hand pulling Mylo back by the shoulder. "We just pulled you out of a dumpster after the enforcers locked you in one."
Abel stared at Mylo, unblinking, trying to gauge what he was playing at, given Abel's reputation. Types like Mylo—loud, reckless—were common in Zaun. They burned bright and burned out fast. He shifted his gaze to Vi, who watched him with that infuriating half-smirk, like she could see right through him. "I'm here on business," he said.
Vi tilted her head, studying him. "Yeah? From where I'm standing, you don't look like you're here for the festival vibes. You look like someone running from something. Or maybe toward something." She pushed off the pipe, stepping closer, eyes locked on him. "Care to share, or you gonna keep playing the mysterious loner?"
He didn't trust Vi, not fully, not knowing her motives. She and her crew were Vander's kids, raised by a man preaching unity while Silco spun his webs.
"I don't owe you answers," he said, turning back to the festival below. Music drifted up, a smooth melody clashing with the tension on the roof. "You don't belong here. Piltover doesn't take kindly to Zaun rats."
Powder, silent until now, spoke up, her voice soft but clear. "Maybe he just likes the view." She stood from the edge, brushing her hands on her patched pants. "It's pretty. All those lights. Like stars, but closer." She hesitated, then took a shy step toward Abel, her wide eyes sincere. "Do you come here a lot? To… watch?"
Abel's gaze softened, just for a moment, as he looked at Powder. She was too young for the life Zaun forced on its children, but her curiosity reminded him of Erik, always asking questions, always dreaming of more. "Sometimes," he admitted, his voice quieter.
Vi snorted, but without malice. "Dream on, Powder. The Upper City doesn't want us here, unless it's to scrub their floors or entertain them."
Powder's face fell, but she nodded, as if she understood. Vi watched Abel, her gaze searching, but she didn't press. Instead, she turned to the festival below, her voice softening. "Come on, Pow-Pow. Let's get back to Zaun before Vander worries."
As they turned to leave, Powder hesitated, then darted back to Abel, pressing something small into his hand—a roughly carved wooden star, carefully made. "For you," she whispered shyly. "So you don't feel so alone up here."
Abel stared at the star, his chest tightening. He said nothing but slipped it into his pocket. Vi's crew melted into the shadows, leaving him alone on the roof once more. The festival lights twinkled below, and for the first time in a long while, Abel felt something beyond the burn of shimmer—a faint, fragile spark of something human.
Silco's assignments grew more dangerous. After dealing with Tagus, Abel was tasked with something bigger—scouting the Upper Lines. Silco planned to annex a factory owned by a Piltover councilor. It was a risky move, and Abel knew it could end in blood.
He went with three of Silco's thugs. The factory sat on Piltover's outskirts, surrounded by high walls and guards. The plan was simple: sneak in, sabotage a few machines, and get out. But it went wrong.
The guards spotted them almost immediately. A fight broke out, and Abel was in his element. His claws tore through armor, toxic mist filled the air, making guards cough and collapse. But one of Silco's thugs was too slow. A bullet pierced his chest, and he fell, gasping. Another tried to flee but was caught and finished. Abel was left alone against a dozen enforcers.
He didn't remember how it ended. When he came to, bodies lay around him, his hands slick with blood. The factory was burning, black smoke rising to the sky. Technically, he'd completed the job—the machines wouldn't work anymore, right?
Back in Zaun, he headed to Silco's to report. The hideout was eerily quiet, too quiet. As he entered, his eyes fell on a figure beside Silco. Tall, gaunt, curious. Singed.
"Abel," Silco's voice was calm, but irritation simmered beneath it. "You did it. But you know… I expected a different outcome."
Abel didn't respond. His eyes met Singed's, one of the targets he'd nearly forgotten. The shimmer in his blood boiled. Singed likely knew more about him than Abel could currently fathom, but for now, he sat quietly in the corner, on a chair, watching Abel with genuine curiosity.