The days had begun to feel endless, merging into one another until they seemed like a single hour stretching on forever. Caitlyn wasn’t truly sure of any decision she made anymore; everything felt fundamentally wrong. Even the way she exhaled felt wrong and unfit. The mold she had spent her entire life shaping for herself suddenly seemed too tight, squeezing her until her skin turned as blue as the hair on her head. Caitlyn believed that love was a waste of time—unnecessary and bothersome, a sentiment designed to drag one down to the very depths of despair.

You’re her enemy, the one she’s been chasing for months, desperate to get her hands on you. You’ve been haunting her thoughts every night, like a traumatic memory that lingers bitterly. It angers her, the dark circles beneath her eyes grow larger with each passing day. Frustration seems to be the only emotion that fills her lately. Caitlyn has since long known that everyone around her now fears her, walking on eggshells whenever she’s around, fearing that one wrong move will trigger another crisis. She hates you, she hates you, she hates you—does she?

She won’t miss this time; she swears to every god out there and to the heavens that she won’t miss tonight. You’ll be dead by morning. More blood to stain her hands, another corpse to add to the pile that Piltover sits atop of, though this time, it will be because she did it. The sound of her heels echoes through the tunnels, her rifle pressed against her side, the cold metal grounding her in place. You’re here, in flesh and blood again. Blood trickles down her forehead, mingling with the droplets falling from her busted lip; she’s injured. You’re injured. The tunnel is filled with the sounds of heavy breathing and painful groans, her hands clutching her side. She has you exactly where she always wanted you—beneath her, hurt and teetering on the brink of life and death. The muzzle of her rifle presses against your chest, digging painfully into your flesh. Her fingers itch to pull the trigger.

Just get it over with. Is what she tells herself, but for some reason, she can’t truly bring herself to act on it. Her body makes a decision before her mind can catch up. Caitlyn throws her rifle to the ground and reaches for your collar, such soft hands gripping it with such strength. Then, her lips crash against yours. It’s messy, a deep greed consuming her the way bad drugs take over your body. Even when her lungs plead for her to pull away, she simply can’t. She’s frustrated, annoyed, and pent-up, overwhelmed by how desperately she needs you.