Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: When Giants Fall

The first thing Senna noticed each morning was the silence. Not the absence of sound, the Undercity was never truly quiet, with its constant hum of machinery and distant echoes of industry, but rather the stillness of her small warehouse before the children arrived. A pocket of peace in a city that rarely offered any.

She pushed herself up from the narrow cot in her back room, bare feet touching the cold floor. The space around her was an organized chaos of stacked books, salvaged art supplies, and half-finished projects. A student's painting of the Pilt River hung crooked on one wall, next to sketches of machines and dreams. She dressed quickly in practical clothes, worn pants, a sleeveless top, boots that had seen better days, and tied her dark red hair back in its usual ponytail.

The main room of the warehouse greeted her with familiar disorder. Mismatched tables and chairs clustered in learning stations. A chalkboard she'd traded for with salvaged parts. Shelves built from repurposed crates, holding everything from primers on reading to guides on identifying edible plants in the Fissure's toxic landscape. The colorful signboard by the entrance caught the dim light filtering through the high windows, each child's handprint a testament to their presence, their choice to be here.

But first, before anything else, she checked on Sara.

The curtained area in the far corner served as temporary refuge for children who needed it. Senna pushed the fabric aside gently, finding the girl curled on a bedroll, dark hair splayed across a threadbare pillow. Sara was maybe nine, nobody knew for certain, and the bruises on her arms had faded from purple to that sickly yellow-green of healing. The girl had shown up three nights ago, silent and shaking, and Senna had asked no questions. She never did. The open door policy meant exactly that.

Sara's breathing was steady, peaceful. Senna let the curtain fall back and moved to the small kitchen area, really just a counter with a salvaged heating element and some storage. The donations had been lean this week. She counted what they had: half a loaf of bread going stale, some preserved fruit, a bit of dried meat. She set aside a portion for Sara's breakfast and made a mental note to visit her parents' shop later. Her mother would slip her something without making it obvious, the way she always did.

An hour past dawn, the warehouse door creaked open.

"Morning, Miss Senna!" Pip bounded in, all energy and gap-toothed grin. The boy was maybe seven, small for his age, with an uncanny talent for finding things people had lost. He made straight for the signboard, stretching on his toes to press his hand against his faded blue print.

"Morning, Pip. Your hands clean?"

He held them up for inspection, relatively clean by Undercity standards. "Washed 'em in the runoff!"

"That's... better than nothing. Go pick a book from the reading corner. We're starting with letters today."

Two more children arrived, then four, then a steady trickle. Each one touched their mark on the wall, a ritual Senna hadn't planned but that had grown organically. Ownership. Belonging. Proof that this place was theirs as much as hers.

She was helping a cluster of younger children sound out words when Sara emerged from behind the curtain, rubbing her eyes. Senna caught her gaze and nodded toward the kitchen area. The girl's face brightened, just a flicker, but it was there.

The morning progressed in its usual rhythm. Reading lessons for the younger ones. Basic mathematics for those who showed interest. A practical lesson on identifying which mushrooms growing in the undercity's damp corners were safe to eat and which would kill you within hours. Senna moved between groups, answering questions, redirecting attention, settling the occasional dispute over materials.

It was mid-morning when the older students began arriving, and with them came the whispers.

"—heard it from Jax, who heard it from someone who works at the Last Drop—"

"—can't be true, Silco doesn't just die—"

"—saw his people leaving, lots of them—"

Senna felt her stomach tighten. She kept her voice steady as she addressed the class. "Alright, focus up. Whatever rumors you've heard outside these walls, in here we're working on our projects. Tam, how's that design for the water filter coming?"

But the whispers persisted, flowing between students like smoke. Silco's dead. Silco's gone. Did you hear? The King of the Undercity, fallen.

Senna had always been cautious about politics but Silco had helped in his own way. Silco's protection had been the invisible shield around her school for the past year. When word of her warehouse classroom had first spread, reaching the ears of people who mattered, she'd expected trouble. Instead, Sevika had appeared, massive, intimidating, with that mechanical arm and those sharp eyes that missed nothing.

Senna remembered that meeting clearly. She'd stood her ground in this very room while Sevika prowled the space, examining everything. The older woman had picked up a child's drawing, studied it, set it down carefully. She'd read the words on the signboard above the entrance: "Every child who walks through this door gets a choice about their future."

"Silco wants to know what you're doing here," Sevika had said, voice like gravel.

"Teaching children to read. To think. To survive and maybe do more than just survive."

"Why?"

The simplest and hardest question. "Because someone should."

Sevika had left without another word. Two days later, Senna heard through the network of merchants and workers that Silco himself had declared the school off-limits. Everyone was to leave it alone. The chembarons' runners, the gang recruiters, even the desperate scavengers looking for easy targets, all were to stay away. It had seemed almost miraculous, until she'd understood. Silco wanted a stronger Undercity. What better way than children who could read, build, think beyond the next meal or the next fix?

Now that protection might be gone.

She guided her students through the rest of the day with practiced calm, but her mind raced. The older students noticed, they always did. Kael, nearly sixteen and built like he'd already put in years of hard labor, caught her eye during the afternoon practical session.

"It's true, isn't it? About Silco?"

Senna measured her response. The students deserved honesty, but not panic. "I don't know yet. We'll find out. Either way, we keep going. This school existed before anyone important knew about it, and it'll exist after."

"But if the chembarons start fighting for territory…"

"Then we'll adapt. Like we always do."

His jaw tightened, but he nodded. These older students understood the Undercity's realities better than she sometimes wished they had to.

The day wound down. Senna made sure the younger children left in groups, the older ones keeping watch as they always did. She'd instituted the buddy system months ago, and it had prevented more than one incident she didn't like to think about too hard. Sara lingered, uncertain, until Senna gently told her she could stay as long as she needed.

The sun was setting, or what passed for sunset in the Undercity, the already dim light fading to deeper shadow, when Senna heard the distinctive sound of heavy boots on the warehouse floor.

Sevika stood in the doorway, and Senna's breath caught.

The woman looked like she'd been through a war. Her left side was a mess of bandages, and her mechanical arm—that intricate, powerful piece of engineering—was simply gone. Just the broken stump at the shoulder. Blood had seeped through in places where her more serious injuries were. Her face was drawn with pain and exhaustion, but her eyes were as sharp as ever.

"We need to talk," Sevika said. "Privately."

Senna glanced at Sara, who had frozen near the curtained area. "Sara, sweetie, could you organize the art supplies? Make sure everything's sorted by color?"

The girl nodded quickly and scurried off, clearly relieved to have a task that took her away from the intimidating woman who'd just entered.

Sevika limped to one of the larger tables and sat heavily. Senna grabbed a relatively clean cloth and what passed for medical supplies around here—salvaged bandages, some antiseptic she'd traded for, basic tools.

"Let me look at…"

"I'm fine," Sevika growled, then winced. "I'm not here for that."

"You're bleeding through your bandages in various places. At least let me check if they’re infected." Senna didn't wait for permission, moving to examine some of the more serious wounds. Sevika glared but didn't stop her.

Some of the injuries were bad, but clean. Someone had done decent work patching her up, though the complete loss of the arm spoke to the violence of whatever had happened. Senna worked in silence, replacing the worst of the bandages, applying more antiseptic. Sevika bore it with gritted teeth.

"Silco's dead," Sevika finally said. "The rumors are true."

Senna's hands didn't pause in their work. "What happened?"

"Does it matter?" Sevika's voice was rough with something that might have been grief. "He's gone. That's what matters."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. He wouldn't want pity." Sevika shifted, watching as Senna tied off a new bandage. "He'd want us to keep working. Keep building what he started."

"You're going to try to hold things together."

"I have to." Sevika's good hand clenched on the table. "The chembarons are already circling. Finn thought he could make a move awhile ago—he's dead too. But the others, Margot, Smeech, Chross, Renni, they're going to fight for control. Zaun's about to tear itself apart."

Senna finished with the bandages and stepped back. "What do you need from me?"

"Be ready. If the violence starts…" Sevika paused, shook her head. "…when, not if. When it starts, there are going to be more kids who need somewhere to go. Families caught in the crossfire. Orphans. You'll see an influx."

"I'm already running on donations and favors."

"I know. I'll make sure supplies get here. Food, medicine, whatever you need." Sevika stood, favoring her injured side. "Silco kept everyone away from this place because he believed in what you're doing. I'm going to do the same, as long as I can. But Senna…" her eyes locked on the younger woman's, "…it might get bad. Really bad. You need to be prepared for that."

Senna thought of Sara's bruises, of Pip's gap-toothed grin, of Kael's determination to learn a trade instead of falling into gang work. Of all the children who'd pressed their hands to that signboard, claiming their right to a choice.

"I'll be ready," she said quietly. "Thank you for the warning."

Sevika nodded and turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Silco liked what you wrote. On the sign out front. About choices." A bitter smile crossed her scarred face. "He understood that better than most people knew."

Then she was gone, disappearing into the Zaun evening.

Senna stood alone in the warehouse, listening to Sara's quiet movements in the background. Her mind was already working, planning. She needed to reach out to her network, make sure everyone understood what was coming. Her parents would help spread the word among the merchants. The craftspeople and workers who occasionally mentored her students would need to know to be careful, to watch for kids who might need help.

And the Firelights. Ekko's group had watched over the school area more than once, though they'd never officially acknowledged the connection. She'd seen them in the shadows, those distinctive hoverboards, keeping an eye on things. They'd want to know about this.

She sat at her cluttered desk and pulled out paper and ink. The letters needed to be simple—she'd learned that straightforward communication worked best in Zaun. No fancy words, no elaborate plans. Just the facts and a request for help.

To those who've supported the school,

Silco is dead. Violence between chembarons likely to increase. More children may need safe haven and basic necessities. Please help however you can—extra food donations, spreading word to families that we're here, watching for kids in danger. Older students should escort younger ones in groups.

As always, we appreciate what you can offer. Every small bit helps.

– Senna

She wrote variations for different recipients. One for her parents. One for the network of craftspeople. One carefully worded message for Ekko and the Firelights, which she would leave in the dead drop location they'd used before—a loose brick near the entrance to the school where information sometimes appeared and disappeared like magic.

Ekko,

Things are about to get messy. If you and yours can spare extra eyes on the area, especially during student arrival and departure times, it would help keep the kids safer. No obligation, just asking if it's possible.

Your choice, like always.

– S

By the time she finished, night had fully settled over Zaun. The green glow of the city filtered through the windows, casting everything in that familiar toxic light. Sara had fallen asleep again, curled up in the curtained area with a book clutched to her chest. Senna covered the girl with a blanket and made sure the doors were secured.

She delivered the messages through her usual methods, some left with neighbors who'd pass them along, others tucked into specific locations where the intended recipients would find them. The one for Ekko she placed in the dead drop herself, making sure it was secure before heading back.

The warehouse felt different when she returned. Heavier somehow, weighted with the knowledge of what was coming. She walked through the space, straightening tables, organizing supplies that didn't really need organizing. Her fingers traced the handprints on the signboard, so many children, each one a life that mattered, each one deserving better than Zaun usually offered.

In her back room, she sat on the edge of her cot and let herself feel the weight of it all. The responsibility. The uncertainty. The fear that she might not be able to protect all of them when things got bad.

But also the determination. Sevika had promised supplies. Her community would help. The Firelights would do what they could. And Senna herself would work every hour of every day if that's what it took.

Sleep came slowly, and when it did, her dreams were filled with handprints on walls and children's voices asking questions she didn't know how to answer. In the background, always, the sense of something massive shifting, like the foundation of Zaun itself was cracking.

Tomorrow would bring what it would bring. She'd face it the way she always had, one child at a time, one choice at a time, one small act of defiance against a world that wanted to grind them all down.

The warehouse settled into silence around her, and outside, Zaun churned on, unaware that its careful balance was about to shatter.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Ghosts in the Rubble

The first few weeks after Silco's death passed in a strange, suspended tension. Senna had braced for immediate chaos, for the warehouse to become a refuge overflowing with displaced children and terrified families. Instead, Zaun held its breath. The chembarons circled each other like cautious predators, testing boundaries, making small moves but nothing explosive. Not yet.

Her school continued in its familiar rhythm. Morning silence broken by children's voices. Reading lessons and practical skills. The handprints on the signboard multiplied as word spread that the warehouse remained a safe haven. Sevika had kept her promise, anonymous deliveries appeared at odd hours, crates of food and medical supplies left outside the door with no note, no explanation needed.

Sara had stayed for two weeks before her aunt arrived, apologizing profusely and promising the girl's father wouldn't be a problem anymore. Senna hadn't asked what that meant. She'd simply hugged Sara goodbye and told her she was always welcome back.

Now, three weeks into this precarious peace, Senna was on a scavenging run.

The junkyard sprawled across a forgotten corner of Zaun, too close to the toxic runoff from the old refineries for anyone to build on, but perfect for those willing to dig through the refuse of the city above. Piltover's trash became Zaun's treasure, if you knew where to look and what to salvage.

Senna picked her way carefully between mountains of metal scraps and broken machinery, her canvas bag already half-full. She'd found three intact gear assemblies that would work perfectly for the older students' engineering projects, a box of worn but usable pencils, and, miraculously, a set of children's books only slightly water-damaged. Probably discarded when some Piltover family decided their child needed newer, prettier books.

She was examining what looked like the remains of a mechanical calculator when she noticed the figure.

Small, hunched, sitting on a rusted pipe about twenty feet away. Perfectly still. The grey hooded cloak made them nearly invisible against the dull metal backdrop, but Senna had learned to notice the things other people missed. In Zaun, survival often depended on seeing what shouldn't be there.

At first, she almost kept walking. Zaun was full of people who wanted to be left alone, and she'd learned to respect that boundary. But something about the figure's absolute stillness made her pause. The way they sat, not hiding exactly, but not quite present either. Like a ghost haunting the ruins of someone else's life.

Senna had seen this before. Loss had a particular quality to it, a weight that pressed people down until they became part of the landscape.

She approached slowly, making enough noise that she wouldn't startle them. "Hey there," she said softly, stopping a respectful distance away. "You alright?"

No response. The figure didn't even shift.

Senna set down her bag and crouched, trying to see under the hood. "I've got some water if you need it. And bread. It's not much, but…"

"Don't need charity." The voice was young, female, flat as old paint.

"Not charity," Senna said evenly. "Just sharing what I've got. This your spot? I can move along if you'd rather be alone."

A pause. Then, almost reluctantly, the figure's head tilted up.

Senna's breath caught.

She'd never met Jinx personally, but everyone in Zaun knew that face. The blue hair was hidden under the hood, but when those eyes, bright magenta, stared out at her with such hollowness it made Senna's chest ache. Silco's daughter. The girl who'd worked at his side, who'd been seen around the Last Drop, who'd disappeared completely after his death.

And here she was, sitting in a junkyard like discarded refuse.

Senna carefully controlled her expression, showing no shock, no recognition beyond what anyone might show another person. "Still offering the water," she said quietly. "And the food."

Jinx's eyes studied her with an intensity that felt like being dissected. Looking for pity, maybe. Or judgment. Senna kept her face neutral, patient.

"You're wasting your time," Jinx finally said. The sarcasm was there, but buried under so many layers of exhaustion it barely registered. "People like me don't do the whole 'getting better' thing."

"Maybe." Senna pulled out her water flask and a wrapped piece of bread anyway, setting them on the rusted pipe between them. "But hydration and food aren't really about getting better. They're just about getting through today."

Jinx stared at the offerings like they were written in a language she'd forgotten how to read. Her hands remained hidden under the cloak, making no move to take them.

"You know who I am." Not a question.

"I know you probably want to be left alone," Senna said. "But it's also my nature to help where I can, even if that help isn't wanted. Occupational hazard." She settled more comfortably on the ground, not quite sitting but not leaving either. "So I'll leave these here, and you can do what you want with them."

Something flickered across Jinx's face—confusion, maybe, or the ghost of an emotion too complex to name. "You're that girl," she said slowly. "The one who started the school. The warehouse thing."

"That's me."

A sharp, humorless laugh escaped Jinx's throat. "Good luck with that. Really. Hope you've got a backup plan for when it all falls apart." The words were bitter, each one edged with something that might have been self-hatred. "Nothing good lasts down here."

Senna acknowledged this with a slight nod. "It's harder than I thought it would be," she admitted. "Keeping it going, making sure the kids are safe, finding enough supplies. But it's still there. Still open."

"For how long?" Jinx's eyes narrowed. "When the chembarons really start fighting, when the streets turn into war zones, you think your little school's going to survive that?"

"Maybe not," Senna said honestly. "But while it does, it's open for everyone. Anyone who needs it." She held Jinx's gaze. "Regardless of circumstances."

The laugh that came from Jinx this time was sharper, cutting. She shifted forward slightly, and the movement was predatory, wrong somehow, like a broken toy trying to remember how it used to move. "Everyone? Really?" Her voice dropped to something quieter, more dangerous. "Even girls who've murdered two fathers now?"

The words hung in the air between them like smoke.

Senna's mind raced. No one knew who killed Silco—there'd been rumors, speculation, but nothing confirmed. And Jinx had said two fathers. The implications crashed through Senna's thoughts, but she kept her expression calm, not pushing, not asking for details that clearly caused this girl pain.

"Yes," she said simply. "The sign outside says 'every child who walks through this door gets a choice about their future.' That's what it means. Every child. Regardless of circumstances."

Jinx had gone very still. For a moment, something shifted in those magenta eyes—a flicker of something almost like hope, or recognition, or connection. Like a drowning person glimpsing the surface. But it disappeared as quickly as it came, swallowed by the emptiness that seemed to fill her from the inside out.

She stood abruptly, the grey cloak falling around her like smoke. "You don't know what you're offering."

"Maybe not," Senna acknowledged. "But the offer stands."

Jinx looked at the water and bread still sitting on the pipe, then back at Senna. Her expression was unreadable—not guarded exactly, but like she'd forgotten which emotions went with which situations. Like grief and guilt had burned through all the normal responses and left only static behind.

She reached out, almost reluctantly, and took the offerings. Her fingers were thin, too thin, and they trembled slightly.

"Thanks," she said, the word sounding rusty with disuse.

"Anytime."

Jinx turned to leave, moving with that same strange, broken quality, like puppet strings cut but the puppet still trying to dance. She made it a few steps before stopping, her back to Senna.

The words came so quietly Senna almost missed them: "I don't deserve anything like that."

It wasn't said to Senna, not really. It was the kind of thing someone whispered to themselves, a fundamental truth they'd carved into their bones. Jinx didn't wait for a response—she kept walking, disappearing between the mountains of scrap metal with the water and bread clutched against her chest.

Senna sat for a long moment after she'd gone, processing what had just happened.

Jinx had killed Silco. Or believed she had—sometimes in grief, people took on guilt that wasn't entirely theirs to carry. And someone else before that. Two fathers. The pieces of that puzzle were too complex to assemble from one conversation, and Senna knew better than to try.

What mattered was what she'd seen in those magenta eyes: the absolute conviction that she deserved nothing. No help, no kindness, no future. Just empty existence until even that ran out.

Senna had seen versions of that look before, in children who'd been told they were worthless for so long they'd started to believe it. In kids who'd survived things that should have killed them and didn't know how to live with the fact that they hadn't died. Rose had worn a similar expression near the end, when the disease had stolen everything but the pain.

She stood slowly, collecting her scavenging bag. Her mind was already working, not planning exactly, but preparing. Jinx probably wouldn't come to the school, the girl had looked like the idea of hope itself caused her physical pain. But if she did, Senna needed to be ready. Needed to know how to help someone who'd convinced themselves they couldn't be helped.

The walk back to the warehouse took her through quieter streets, avoiding the main thoroughfares where the chembarons' influence was most visible. She'd gotten good at reading Zaun's moods, knowing which areas felt tense and which were still relatively safe. Today, the tension was building, she could feel it in the way people moved, the way conversations stopped when strangers approached, the increased presence of gang members marking their territory.

The precarious peace wouldn't last much longer.

By the time she reached the warehouse, the afternoon light was filtering through the high windows in those familiar green-tinged rays. The sound of children's voices greeted her, Pip arguing with another boy about proper scavenging technique, the older students working on their projects in focused silence, someone practicing letters on the chalkboard.

Normal. Familiar. Precious.

Kael looked up from where he was helping a younger student with basic mathematics. "Find anything good?"

Senna set her bag down and pulled out the salvaged gear assemblies. "Thought you could use these for your filtration project."

His face lit up the way it always did when presented with mechanical challenges. "These are perfect. Where'd you…" He stopped, eyes narrowing slightly. "You okay? You look weird."

"I'm fine. Just ran into someone unexpected."

"Trouble?"

"I don't think so. Just... sad."

Kael accepted this with a nod. In Zaun, sad was common enough that it rarely required further explanation.

The afternoon progressed in its usual pattern. Senna distributed the salvaged supplies, checked on each student's progress, mediated a dispute about whose turn it was to use the good pencils. She helped Pip with his reading, the boy was getting better, sounding out words with increasing confidence. She watched the older students work on their engineering projects, offering guidance when needed but mostly letting them figure things out themselves.

All of it familiar. All of it normal.

But part of her mind kept returning to that junkyard, to those hollow magenta eyes, to the whispered words: I don't deserve anything like that.

That evening, after the last student had left and she'd secured the doors, Senna sat at her desk with her battered notebook. She kept records of students, their progress, their needs. It helped her stay organized, helped her remember who struggled with what, who might need extra attention or different teaching approaches.

She opened to a fresh page and paused, pen hovering over the paper.

Finally, she wrote simply: Jinx. Silco's daughter. Met in junkyard. Severe grief/trauma. May need help but unlikely to seek it. Watch for her.

Below that, she added: Note: believes she doesn't deserve help or kindness. Approach with care.

She closed the notebook and looked around the warehouse. At the handprints on the signboard, each one a choice, a claim, a declaration of presence. At the mismatched furniture and salvaged supplies. At the curtained area where children could sleep when they needed safety.

The school had started as something simple, teach kids to read, give them skills, offer a choice about their futures. But it had grown into something more complex, something she hadn't fully anticipated. It had become a space where the lost could be found, where the broken could rest, where children carrying impossible weights could set them down for a few hours.

Could it be that for someone like Jinx? Someone older, Senna’s own age by her reckoning, someone who'd done things that probably couldn't be undone, someone drowning in guilt and loss?

Senna didn't know. But the sign outside didn't say every child except the broken ones or every child who hasn't made terrible mistakes. It said every child. Period.

She'd meant it when she wrote it. She meant it now.

Outside, Zaun churned on through another night, its green-lit streets and endless industry grinding forward regardless of who fell or who survived. Somewhere out there, a girl with blue hair and magenta eyes was walking through those streets, carrying water and bread she didn't think she deserved, convinced she'd destroyed everything worth saving.

And here, in a small warehouse between the Lanes and the Docks, Senna kept the lights on. Kept the door unlocked. Kept the choice available for anyone who might, eventually, be ready to make it.

Tomorrow would bring what it would bring. She'd face it the way she always had, one person at a time, one small kindness at a time, one quiet defiance against the voice that told people they were beyond help.

The warehouse settled into its nighttime silence, and Senna finally allowed herself to hope that maybe, possibly, Jinx might find her way back.

Even if she didn't believe she deserved to.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: The Weight of Open Doors

The violence had started creeping closer.

Senna heard it in the way her students talked, hushed conversations about fights breaking out in the market district, about Margot's people clashing with Smeech's runners near the old chemical plant. The chembarons were done circling each other. They were testing boundaries with fists and blades and worse.

But the warehouse remained untouched. Sevika's promise, or perhaps the memory of Silco's decree, still held some power. The school existed in a strange bubble of relative safety while Zaun tore at itself just beyond its walls.

It had been three weeks since the junkyard. Three weeks since those hollow magenta eyes had stared at her with such absolute conviction of worthlessness. Senna had kept watch, part of her always aware of the streets around the warehouse, looking for a flash of blue hair or a grey cloak. But Jinx hadn't appeared.

Maybe she wouldn't. Maybe that moment in the junkyard had been all there would be, a brief intersection of two people's paths before they diverged again into Zaun's chaos.

Senna had almost convinced herself of this when she saw her.

It was evening, the green-tinged light fading to deeper shadow. The last students had left an hour ago, escorted home in their usual groups. Senna was outside, sweeping the area around the entrance, clearing away the day's accumulated debris. A habit more than a necessity, but it gave her time to think, to process the day, to prepare for tomorrow.

She felt the presence before she saw it. That particular quality of being watched that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

Jinx stood maybe twenty feet away, partially hidden by the shadow of a derelict building. The grey cloak covering her like it had that day in the junkyard. Though the hood was down this time.  Her blue hair caught the dim light, twin braids falling past her waist. She wasn't moving, just standing there like she'd been caught mid-step and forgotten how to continue.

Senna's hands stilled on the broom. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Senna did the only thing that made sense. She turned, walked to the warehouse doors, and opened them fully. The warm light from inside spilled out onto the street.

"There's a quiet corner in the back," she said, her voice carrying easily in the evening stillness. "Curtained area on the left. Kitchen's got some fruit and bread if you're hungry. Water's fresh as of this morning." She paused, meeting those magenta eyes across the distance. "You're welcome to any of it."

Jinx's expression flickered through several emotions too quickly to name. Surprise dominated, genuine shock that seemed to say how did I get here? Like her feet had brought her to this place without consulting her brain first.

She looked at Senna with deep suspicion, searching for the trap, the catch, the moment where kindness would reveal itself as cruelty in disguise. Senna had seen that look before, in children who'd been hurt so badly they couldn't recognize safety anymore.

"No strings," Senna added quietly. "No questions. Just a place to sit if you need it."

Something in the way she said it, matter-of-fact and genuine, without pity or judgment, seemed to break through whatever internal argument Jinx was having with herself. The girl took a step forward. Then another. Moving like she was fighting her own instincts with every foot of ground covered.

She reached the entrance and paused again, looking up at the signboard with its colorful handprints and the words painted above: "Every child who walks through this door gets a choice about their future."

Her jaw tightened. "I'm not a child."

"Everyone gets a choice," Senna corrected gently. "The sign's just optimistic about who might use the door."

Jinx's eyes narrowed, but she stepped inside.

Senna followed at a respectful distance, giving the girl space to orient herself. Jinx's gaze swept the warehouse with the practiced assessment of someone used to identifying threats and exits. She took in the mismatched tables, the chalkboard with its half-erased math problems, the shelves of salvaged books and supplies. The curtained area in the corner that served as temporary refuge.

Without a word, she made straight for it.

Senna watched as Jinx disappeared behind the fabric, heard the soft sound of someone settling onto the bedroll. Heard the distinctive shift of a person curling in on themselves, making their body as small as possible.

She gave it five minutes, then gathered some of the dried fruit and bread from the kitchen area, along with a flask of water. She approached the curtained area slowly, telegraphing her movements.

"Leaving these here," she said, setting them just inside the curtain where Jinx could reach them without fully emerging. "Take what you want."

No response, but Senna hadn't expected one.

She returned to her desk and pulled out her battered notebook. The evening lesson plans needed review, and she wanted to record some observations about Pip's reading progress. The boy was flying through material that would have taken most kids twice as long. She made a note to find him more challenging texts.

The scratch of pencil on paper filled the silence. Behind the curtain, Jinx was so quiet she might have been a ghost, if not for the occasional rustle of fabric that proved her presence was real.

Senna worked through her notes methodically. Recorded which students struggled with which concepts. Made lists of supplies they'd need for next week's practical lessons. Sketched out a rough plan for teaching basic first aid, something that felt increasingly necessary as the violence outside escalated.

Twenty minutes passed. The warehouse had settled into its nighttime sounds, the distant hum of Zaun's machinery, the creak of old metal adjusting to temperature changes, the whisper of Senna's pencil across paper.

Then movement. The curtain shifted and Jinx emerged, moving with that same strange, broken quality Senna had noticed in the junkyard. She didn't look at Senna, didn't say anything, just headed for the door with the food and water clutched against her chest.

"Take care out there," Senna said softly, not looking up from her notes. Casual. Normal. Like this was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Jinx paused at the threshold. Her fingers tightened on the flask.

"Thanks," she whispered. Then she was gone, disappearing into Zaun's night.

Senna set down her pencil and allowed herself a small smile. Not victory, not yet. Just the quiet satisfaction of a door left open, and someone choosing to walk through it.

A week passed. The chembarons' violence escalated, two of Margot's people were found dead near the docks, retaliation for something they had done to Smeech’s people, or maybe just because violence had its own momentum now. Sevika appeared once, dropping off supplies and looking even more worn than before. Her eyes held a weariness that spoke to battles on multiple fronts.

"It's getting worse," she'd said simply. "Keep the kids close."

Senna had doubled down on the buddy system, made sure the older students understood the routes to avoid, established backup meeting points in case the school became inaccessible. Her network of merchants and craftspeople had rallied, offering their shops as safe havens if needed. The Firelights had increased their presence in the area, though Senna only knew this from the occasional glimpse of green light and distinctive hoverboards in the shadows.

She was preparing for bed, the warehouse dark except for a single lamp by her desk, when she heard the door creak open.

Jinx stood in the entrance, backlit by Zaun's eternal green glow. She looked different somehow, more present maybe, or perhaps just less like a ghost wearing a person's skin. Her blue hair was messier than before, braids starting to fray, and there were new scratches on her hands that suggested she'd been climbing through rough terrain.

Senna set down the book she'd been reading and stood slowly. "Hey."

Jinx didn't respond, just walked inside and claimed her previous spot in the curtained corner. Senna gave her a moment, then moved to the kitchen area. There was still some stew from dinner, she'd made extra on the chance that someone might need it. She heated it carefully and brought it over with fresh bread and water.

"This one's warm," she said, setting the bowl within reach. "Better than dried fruit."

She turned to head back to her desk, to give Jinx the space she clearly needed, when a voice stopped her.

"Why?"

The word was quiet, almost scared, like asking questions might shatter whatever fragile reality had brought Jinx here.

Senna turned back. Jinx was staring at the bowl of stew like it contained answers she couldn't quite reach.

"Why what?"

"This." Jinx's hand gestured vaguely, encompassing the warehouse, the food, everything. "The school. These kids." Her eyes finally lifted, magenta meeting brown. The real question hung unspoken in the air between them: Why me?

Senna moved to the supply shelf and grabbed some basic art materials, just pencils and a pad of salvaged paper. She settled cross-legged on the floor across from the curtained area, close enough for conversation but not invasive, and held out the supplies.

Jinx took them mechanically, her confusion evident.

"It's about trying to do the right thing," Senna said simply. She watched her own fingers straighten the corner of a page that didn't need straightening. "Which sounds easier than it is. Mostly I try and fail, try and fail, keep throwing myself at problems until something sticks." A soft chuckle escaped her throat, genuine and a little self-deprecating. "My sister would get so angry at me if I ever just gave up."

Something shifted in Jinx's expression. The question was there in her eyes, careful and cautious.

"She died three years ago," Senna continued, her voice steady despite the familiar ache the words brought. "Disease. Caused by shimmer pollution in the water supply." She met Jinx's gaze directly. "Rose was always braver than me despite being younger. Louder, too. She'd get in people's faces about things that mattered. Made me promise I wouldn't stop trying, even when it got hard."

Jinx's eyes had widened slightly, barely perceptible, but Senna caught it. Understanding, maybe, or recognition of shared loss. The girl's fingers tightened on the pencil.

"So when you look at the school," Senna asked gently, "what do you see?"

Jinx was quiet for a long moment. Her eyes drifted to the main room, visible past the curtain, taking in the handprinted signboard, the mismatched furniture, the shelves of salvaged hope.

Senna knew, somehow, that Jinx had been in the area for a while. Had watched from the shadows, observed the way children arrived and left, the way Senna moved through her days with stubborn determination. Had seen the acceptance, the genuine desire to help, the small victories and larger struggles.

But Jinx's life had taught her that kindness was a lie, that help came with strings, that everything good eventually rotted from the inside out. Senna could see the war playing out behind those magenta eyes, what was observed versus what was believed.

"I don't know," Jinx finally said, the words dry and flat, closing the door on deeper conversation.

Senna accepted this with a small nod and pulled out her notebook. She didn't push, didn't pry. Just opened to her lesson plans and began working through them, pencil scratching across paper in that familiar rhythm.

Jinx stayed where she was, the art supplies resting untouched in her lap. The stew sat cooling beside her, but after a few minutes, Senna heard the quiet sounds of eating. Small bites, careful, like Jinx wasn't quite sure this was allowed.

The warehouse existed in its nighttime silence. Senna worked through her notes, occasionally pausing to think about lesson structure or resource allocation. Jinx sat in the curtained corner, slowly consuming the stew, her eyes drifting between the paper in her lap and the main room beyond.

An hour passed. Maybe more. Time moved differently in these quiet moments, measured not in minutes but in the gradual shift of tension to something softer.

Eventually, Senna heard movement. She looked up to find Jinx standing, the empty bowl set carefully aside, the art supplies clutched against her chest.

"I should..." Jinx started, then stopped, seeming unable to finish the sentence.

"Door's always open," Senna said. "Same time tomorrow, different time, whenever. No schedule required."

Jinx's expression did something complicated, cycling through emotions too quickly to track. She turned toward the exit, then paused, looking down at the paper in her hands. With jerky, almost reluctant movements, she set it down near Senna's desk and hurried out into the night.

Senna waited until the footsteps faded before standing. She picked up the paper carefully.

The sketch was rough but skilled, the kind of drawing that came from muscle memory rather than careful planning. It showed the warehouse, recognizable by the signboard above the entrance. Small figures clustered around it, children with their hands pressed to the wall. And off to one side, partially hidden in shadow, a young girl with long blue braids. She wasn't touching the wall, wasn't part of the group. Just watching. Existing on the periphery of something she couldn't quite believe in but couldn't fully leave behind.

Senna studied the drawing for a long moment, her chest tight with an emotion she couldn't quite name. Hope, maybe. Or just the recognition of a girl trying to find her way back from a place so dark that light seemed like an impossibility.

She carried the sketch to her small back room and pinned it carefully to the wall beside her cot, next to Sara's painting of the Pilt River and the other small artifacts of student presence. Physical proof that people passed through this space and left pieces of themselves behind.

Outside, Zaun ground on through another night of violence and survival. Somewhere in those streets, Jinx was walking, carrying the weight of her guilt and loss like stones in her pockets. But she'd come here twice now. Had accepted food and space and the simple presence of someone who asked no questions and demanded no explanations.

It wasn't much. It wasn't healing or redemption or any of the big, impossible things. But it was something.

Senna settled onto her cot and stared at the sketch on the wall. The girl in the shadows. The school she couldn't quite approach but couldn't quite leave.

"We'll keep the door open," Senna whispered to the empty room, to Rose's memory, to the universe that seemed determined to grind Zaun down. "For as long as it takes."

The warehouse settled into its nighttime silence, and somewhere out in Zaun's endless chaos, a girl with blue braids was walking through the dark, carrying a little less weight than she had before.