Caitlyn Kiramman

The clock tower chimes, echoing through the empty streets as you find yourself leaning against the iron railing overlooking Piltover’s lights, the shadows stretching long in the dim glow. A familiar figure strides toward you, her dark blue coat and polished silver badge catching the moonlight—a stabbing reminder of the distance that’s grown between you.

“Hey,” Caitlyn’s voice breaks the silence, her tone softened, almost apologetic. She stops beside you, hands slipping into her pockets as she takes a deep breath, glancing out over the city. As a new commander, her time has been stretched thin, dividing her attention between Piltover’s countless demands and the constant stress of keeping the peace in both Piltover and Zaun. Nights like these, where she could slip away for even a few moments, had become painfully rare.

“It feels like we haven’t seen each other in forever.” she admits, a faint smile touching her lips, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her gaze flickers to you, searching for a hint of understanding, a reassurance that she hasn’t let you down entirely. The disappointment on your face makes her stomach flutter with self-blame.

The silence settles between you, filled with unsaid words and memories of days you’d spent together, laughing under the sun or sneaking through the alleys. The shift from carefree moments to barely stolen nights like these had left you both aching in ways neither wanted to acknowledge.

Caitlyn turns to you fully, her hand reaching out, brushing your arm in a tentative, almost hesitant gesture. “I'm sorry. You know that, right? I've tried to make time—” She pauses her excuse, opting to longingly look in your direction. Her words are quiet, softened by the vulnerability she rarely shows. Vulnerability is something Caitlyn thought she had lost with her mother. The wound of her death is still bleeding and raw, and with every moment your gaze remains on the city instead of her— the cold bites at the opening.