Chapter Text
One year ago.
It was a few hours before New Year’s Eve.
The rush hadn’t hit yet, but it loomed. You could feel it in your bones, in the way the air vibrated with anticipation and bad decisions. You were wiping down the counter for the third time in five minutes when a man took a seat on one of the stools.
You didn’t look up right away. You didn’t need to.
The bar had a sound. Regulars had a rhythm. Drunks had tells. And men who thought the room bent slightly around them? They always sat like they owned the furniture.
“What’ll it be?” you asked, still focused on the counter, voice flat and efficient.
When you finally glanced up, you registered the scar first. The eye second. The suit last—well-tailored, understated, expensive in a way that didn’t beg to be noticed.
You just clocked him as another confident man with too much time and a face that suggested trouble was a hobby.
He leaned back slightly, elbow resting on the bar. “Impress me.”
You stared at him for a beat.
Then you reached under the counter, pulled out a clean glass, and poured him a generous serving of milk. You set it down in front of him with a soft thunk. “There you go.”
For a second, you thought he might be offended. Most men were—ego bruised, pride leaking all over the counter. Instead, his mouth twitched. Not a smile. More like amusement catching him off guard.
“I don’t take you for a comedian,” he said.
“I’m not,” you replied flatly. “I’m tired.”
He studied the glass. Then you. “You always give milk to strangers?”
“Only the ones who expect me to read their minds.”
That did it. He laughed—low, genuine, surprised. The sound cut clean through the noise of the bar.
“Please,” he said, lifting both hands in mock surrender. “Humor me.”
You crossed your arms. “That’s usually where people start asking me my name and whether I smile off the clock.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
That earned you a soft huff of laughter. “Fair enough.”
You sighed, already regretting engaging. “What do you actually want?”
“Something fitting,” he said. “For the night.”
You glanced at the clock. Still hours to midnight. You studied him more closely now—the way his gaze tracked movement without being obvious, the way he held himself like he was used to rooms changing temperature when he entered.
You grabbed a mixing glass.
“Any allergies?” you asked.
“Disappointment.”
You snorted despite yourself.
You reached for the bourbon first.
As you worked, your hands moved on muscle memory alone—measured, efficient, precise. Fernet Branca followed, bitter and herbal, then fresh citrus squeezed with a practiced twist of your wrist. Sugar syrup to soften the edge.
“You always this charitable?” he asked, watching you closely.
“Only with people who don’t whistle at me,” you said.
A pause. “Does that happen often?”
“Every night,” you replied, sliding the shaker closed and giving it a sharp snap. “Usually by men who think eye contact is foreplay.”
You shook the tin hard, ice rattling like teeth. “Tonight’s favorites include: Smile more, Bet you taste sweet, and What time do you get off?”
“And?” he prompted.
“And none of them lived,” you deadpanned.
He laughed again—quieter this time. Appreciative.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
You strained the drink into a chilled glass, dark and gleaming. “That information costs extra.”
“Silco,” he said easily. “I hear you’re very good at this.”
You slid the glass toward him. “Midnight Stinger. Bourbon, Fernet, citrus. Bitter enough to hurt. Sweet enough to forgive it.”
He took a sip.
Another.
Silence stretched.
You watched his expression carefully. Bartending taught you that reactions were everything—microseconds where the truth slipped out before people remembered how to lie.
Silco’s brows lifted just a fraction. His mouth curved, slow and satisfied.
You raised a brow. “Well? Should I fetch the milk back?”
“No,” he said quietly. Then, more firmly, “This is excellent.”
You inclined your head. Compliments were fine. They didn’t pay rent, but they were easier to swallow than lines.
He reached into his coat and slid a card across the bar. Under it—deliberate, unmistakable—was a stack of gold coins so thick you actually checked to see if it was a joke.
It wasn’t.
“In case you want a change of pace,” he said, standing. “Tell them Silco sent you.”
Silco. Why did that name sound familiar?
You picked up the card. Simple. No flourish. Just a name and a location.
The Last Drop.
“And if I don’t?” you asked. “Want a change of pace, that is.”
He stood, adjusting his coat. “Then I had an excellent drink, and you keep doing what you do best.”
He paused, then added, “Happy New Year.”
He was gone before you could respond.
You worked the rest of the night on autopilot. Poured drinks. Took orders. Deflected advances with surgical precision. But the card burned in your pocket like a dare.
An hour before midnight, you found your boss and handed in your resignation.
He stared. “You’re serious?”
“Painfully.”
The next morning, while Piltover nursed its hangover and pretended nothing ever really changed, you packed your things and made your way down to the Undercity.
To The Last Drop.