Chapter Text
There was a special kind of quiet that settled over the Undercity at four in the morning.
It was the brief, gasping window before the chem-baron guards changed shifts, the pumps of the refineries groaned to life, and the ironworkers fired up their deafening furnaces. For a single hour, the relentless grind of Zaun paused. The labyrinth of rusted iron and neon slept beneath the thick, choking layer of the Gray, disturbed only by the rhythmic drip of condensation.
Inside the Menagerie, however, time was measured in poured gin, heavy velvet, and the lingering scent of sweat and perfume. The establishment was a meticulously crafted illusion of luxury buried underground. Tarnished brass chandeliers cast a warm amber glow over the windowless expanse, while the stifling heat of the hearths kept Zaun’s brutal dampness at bay.
Vi leaned against the brass railing of her suite’s private balcony, a lit cigarette dangling between her lips. She watched the stragglers in the parlor below... a couple of patrons snoring on plush crimson sofas, a few of the other hosts counting their coin by the flickering light of the hearth.
Her own shift had ended an hour ago, but she had not bothered to change out of her work clothes. Her suspenders hung loose from her hips, and her crisp white button-down was open to the sternum, revealing the stark, jagged lines of the tattoos mapping her skin.
She took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl into the dim, gaslit rafters.
She was tired. The deep, bone-aching kind of tired she never let anyone see. But it was a satisfying exhaustion.
It meant she had done her job.
More importantly, it meant she had been in control.
Vi was good at what she did. There was no doubt about that.
In the three years since she had graduated from running Babette’s errands to working the floor, she had cultivated a reputation that stretched across the River Pilt. Women came down into the trenches just for her... wives of government officials, bored merchants’ daughters, affluent widows.
They wanted the danger of the Undercity wrapped in a package that would not actually hurt them. They wanted the swagger, the rough hands, the low voice telling them exactly what to do and how to take it.
Vi gave it to them flawlessly.
She had mastered the art of reading a room, identifying a woman’s unspoken desires within seconds of her walking through the door. She knew when to offer a tender touch, when to tease without mercy, and when to pin a whining patron against the mattress until she forgot her own name.
To Vi, it was simply a job.
It was a performance... a tailored suit she put on to pay the bills, separate from whatever beat beneath her ribs. She did not mind it. In fact, she liked the power it gave her.
When a woman with ten times her wealth was writhing beneath her, begging for permission to come, the class divide ceased to exist.
Inside those rooms, Vi held all the cards.
A sharp, rhythmic knock at the oak door pulled her from her thoughts.
Vi frowned and stubbed out her cigarette in a brass tray. Deliveries this late were rare.
She turned away from the balcony, her boots silent against the plush carpet, and unlocked the deadbolts.
When she opened the door, she found a young street urchin standing on the pristine velvet runner. He could not have been more than twelve, shivering inside an oversized coat and shifting his weight from foot to foot. A streak of grease marked his nose, and a familiar, desperate hunger filled his eyes.
The sight tightened something in Vi’s chest.
It was a look she knew far too well.
“Delivery for Vi,” the kid said, his voice cracking as he held out a tarnished brass cylinder.
Vi recognized it immediately: a pneumatic capsule from the dispatch network.
The Piltover Post did not extend into the Undercity. Instead, pristine capsules shot through glass tubes from Topside and dropped into public hoppers near the boundary, where urchins collected them and ran them through the Gray in exchange for a copper coin.
“You ran this all the way from the Promenade?” Vi asked.
The kid nodded eagerly. “Slipped through the grates near the boundary line. Quickest way down. Bouncer downstairs let me up when I showed him the name.”
Vi reached into her pocket. Bypassing the copper pieces, she flipped him a silver cog.
The kid’s eyes widened as he snatched it from the air.
“Get yourself something hot to eat,” she said. “And stay off the main pipes. Enforcers are always making their rounds.”
“Thanks!”
He tipped his cap before spinning around, his scuffed boots thudding against the carpet as he hurried down the opulent corridor.
Vi shut the door and slid the deadbolts back into place. Leaning against the cold wood, she examined the capsule in her hands.
The metal was cool and polished, entirely out of place against her scarred, wrapped fingers.
She twisted the cap. The pressurized seal released with a soft hiss, revealing a tightly rolled sheet of thick, expensive parchment.
Vi unfurled the letter.
Her eyes immediately caught the Piltover postmark stamped across the top.
Three days ago.
Fucking Topside clerks.
Some pencil-pusher at the main office must have let it sit on a desk before finally dropping it into the network.
Powder’s familiar handwriting raced across the page with its usual chaotic energy.
Vi!
Things have been completely crazy up here, but classes are amazing! Professor Heimerdinger actually let me help calibrate the harmonic stabilizers yesterday. He said my intuition for frequencies is “unorthodox but highly effective!"
I might be a little busy starting next week, though. The University just posted the new term fees, and the materials cost for the lab jumped up, so I’m going to pick up some side jobs around campus to cover the difference. It’s totally fine. I already spoke to the head assistant about it, so I should have everything worked out. Oh! I’m drawing up this new blueprint for -
Vi stopped reading.
Her jaw clenched until her teeth ached.
Working side jobs? Distracting herself from her studies just to pay the bills?
Absolutely not.
The bottom half of the letter crumpled inside Vi’s fist as a protective surge of anger flared through her.
Powder was brilliant. A genius. A spark of chaotic, beautiful light who deserved the world.
That was the entire point of this... the reason Vi had convinced Babette to let her work the floor the moment she was old enough. Powder was supposed to sit in sunlit lecture halls and devote herself to building miracles. She was not going to waste her potential working just to survive in a world she was meant to remake in her own image.
Vi forced her fingers open and carefully smoothed the parchment. Her thumb brushed over Powder’s name at the bottom.
The anger settled into something colder and more resolute.
Powder was not going to take on side jobs. She was not going to lose a single hour of study.
She was going to be the best damn student in her school.
Vi would make sure of it.
She folded the letter, slipped it into her pocket, and strode down the corridor toward the back offices.
Babette’s office was the only room in the establishment that did not smell like sex or cheap liquor, but rather of rich tobacco, aged wood, and money.
Thick crimson drapes absorbed the muffled thrum of bass from the parlor below, turning the room into a silent, pressurized vault. Behind the glass doors of a cabinet, a crystal decanter of scotch caught the low amber light... a sharp contrast to the watered-down swill served to the regulars.
When Vi knocked and pushed open the mahogany door, the Madame of the Menagerie was seated behind her desk, a pair of reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose as she entered figures into a leather-bound ledger.
Babette did not look up, though the plume of smoke rising from her long cigarette holder twitched.
“Your shift ended an hour ago, Vi. If you’re here to drink my private stock, you’ll have to pay for it.”
Vi let the door click shut behind her. The muffled silence pressed against her ears.
She did not move toward the liquor cabinet. Instead, she approached the desk, one hand buried in her pocket, fingers brushing the crumpled edge of Powder’s letter.
“I need more floor time,” Vi said. She kept her voice steady despite the tension locked in her jaw. “Can you fill my weekend? Double shifts, back-to-backs... whatever’s open.”
Babette paused, the tip of her fountain pen hovering above the parchment.
Slowly, she raised her head and peered over the rim of her glasses. Her dark eyes assessed Vi with the ruthless clarity that always made her feel like a scruffy teenager again.
“I saw the dispatch runner come through earlier,” Babette said, her voice smooth and unhurried. “I assume the University is demanding more coin to keep our little prodigy enrolled?”
Vi stiffened, hating how easily she had been read.
“Tuition and lab fees went up again. I’ll handle it. I just need the shifts, B.”
Babette set down her pen and adjusted a stack of brass booking plates on the desk.
“You are already working six days a week. If I put you on doubles, you’ll be dead on your feet by Sunday. You cannot charm our patrons if you look like a corpse, Vi.”
“I’ve never met anyone I couldn’t handle.” Vi flashed her a sharp, practiced smirk. “I’m not going to break, B. Just put me on the board.”
Babette studied her for a long moment.
Something flickered in the older woman’s eyes.... pity, perhaps, or merely pragmatic concern... but she did not argue. She knew better than to stand between Vi and Powder’s well-being.
“Very well.”
Rather than reaching for the usual stack of booking plates, Babette opened a drawer and removed a black, velvet-lined folder. She placed it on the desk with a quiet thud.
“I received this request earlier today,” she said, resting her hands atop the velvet. “I intended to give it to someone else so you could have tonight off. But since you refuse to take a break…”
She slid the folder across the desk.
“A private booking for this evening. The client was quite insistent, and she explicitly requested you.”
Vi stepped forward and opened the folder.
Inside lay a card made from thick, embossed stock. The paper alone probably cost more than a month’s rent.
“Matilda,” Vi read aloud.
A first name was standard enough for Topside clients sneaking into the Undercity to protect their reputations. Usually, however, those anonymous patrons overcompensated by attaching meticulously detailed lists of preferences, scenarios, and limits they expected their host to accommodate.
Vi scanned the card.
The rest of it was blank.
“No other details?”
“None,” Babette replied, her tone unusually serious. “Her courier handled the transaction. She paid triple your usual rate in advance to secure the Rose Suite, with explicit instructions regarding discretion... and that you accept no other appointments before seeing her.”
Vi let out a low whistle.
Triple her rate would cover Powder’s lab fees in a single night.
“Triple?” She leaned both hands on Babette’s desk, a smirk spreading across her face. “What’s her damage? Wants to pay for a scowl and a rough grip so she can pretend she’s slumming it? Needs me to remind her she’s just another spoiled Piltie before she gets off?”
“I don’t know,” Babette said. “But be careful, Vi. Money like that rarely comes without expectations. Clients who pay those rates do not want a quick thrill. They want an experience.”
“A performance,” Vi said.
“Precisely.”
Vi straightened and rolled her shoulders.
“They always do. Don’t worry, B. I know the script.” She tapped the blank card with one wrapped finger. “I’ll give Matilda exactly what she wants. She’ll leave with weak knees and an empty purse, just like the rest of them.”
Babette watched her turn toward the door.
“Go get some rest first. The Menagerie has a reputation to uphold.”
“I never miss my mark, B,” Vi tossed over her shoulder as she stepped into the dim corridor.
*
Later that evening, Vi stood before the full-length mirror in her private dressing room.
As the Menagerie’s top earner, she did not have to share the crowded vanity tables downstairs. Her secluded antechamber sat directly beside the private suites.
The air carried the scent of jasmine and expensive powder. The room was practical but plush, furnished with a velvet chaise, an oak wardrobe, and a vanity illuminated by the amber glow of gas lamps.
It was her backstage.
Vi stared at her reflection.
She had showered, scrubbing the soot and grime from her skin until it flushed pink. Now she was building the illusion.
She leaned over the vanity and retrieved her leather harness. Stepping into it, she drew the supple straps up her bare thighs and secured them around her waist.
The familiar weight settled against her... a grounding pressure that changed her posture almost immediately.
Vi pulled on a pair of crisp, dark trousers, leaving them slung low on her hips. The tailored fabric drew taut over the concealed harness, forming a distinct bulge beneath the zipper... an unmistakable promise of what waited underneath.
Above them, she wore a fitted black tank that clung to the hard lines of her stomach and the muscle of her shoulders.
She wound fresh white cotton around her hands and knuckles.
The wraps were a purely aesthetic choice tonight, a carefully selected visual cue. Her regulars loved them. They made patrons feel as though they were touching something dangerous... a brawler they had somehow managed to tame.
When Vi looked into the mirror again, the exhausted sister worrying over university fees had disappeared.
In her place stood the Menagerie's most sought-after host.
Her jaw was firm, her eyes sharp and assessing. She dragged a hand through her choppy pink hair, roughing it up just enough to appear effortlessly unkempt.
All right, Matilda.
Vi adjusted her clothes one final time.
"Let’s see what kind of game you want to play."
She turned away from the mirror, certain she knew exactly how the night would unfold. She had performed this role a hundred times before.
Topside money might have purchased the room, but Vi would dictate the terms, call the shots, and guarantee the outcome.
She crossed the room toward the heavy oak door that separated her from the Rose Suite, completely unaware that the woman waiting on the other side was about to rewrite the rules entirely.