Chapter Text
Rain poured harshly on Caitlyn’s car as she sat inside, strands of dark blue hair sticking to her temple. Her white dress shirt clung to her sides, and her heeled boots left streaks of mud on the car floor. On the passenger seat were scattered a dozen photographs, all of them of the same unidentified person. Parked outside one of Zaun’s most infamous clubs, Caitlyn sighed, brows furrowed as she inspected one particular photograph. In it, she could almost see the person’s face, hidden by a headful of black and streaks of red, as they headed into the same club Caitlyn was parked outside. The only thing vaguely recognizable was the symbol on the person’s leather jacket: a two-headed wolf.
All of Caitlyn’s leads had led her to Spark Plug and its clandestine fighting club. Months of painstaking research, covert surveillance, and careful documentation had brought her to this pivotal moment. The private investigator was on the brink of uncovering the identity of Zaun’s vigilante, the mysterious figure who shared her passion for combating crime and corruption in the Undercity.
Until one fateful Tuesday morning, a headline in the newspaper caught her eye, setting the course for her investigation: “LOCAL VIGILANTE STRIKES AGAIN, LEAVES TWO BODIES.”
Like elusive shadows, news and rumors traveled fast in a place like Zaun. Be it from a scribble made by Jericho or word of mouth, gossip would spread like wildfire. Nobody seemed to know who the vigilante was, just that they were, more often than not, at the right place, at the right time. Alleged witnesses’ statements and enforcers’ sketches were the only evidence in Caitlyn’s reach, adding to the enigma that shrouded the vigilante.
That was until, one particular night, the investigator found herself in The Last Drop, going through her less-than-satisfactory findings, her mug of beer long forgotten next to her arm. A couple of tables away from her, a group of tattooed men chatted in hushed whispers while playing some sort of card game. From the corner of her eye, Caitlyn could see a glimpse of a holstered gun on one of the men. When the game seemed to be over, the man with the gun stood up along with what looked like his partner and walked out of the bar.
It had taken less than five seconds of the two men being outside before the investigator heard two gunshots, and she promptly rushed to the front door. Looking around for any trace of the attacker, she saw the back of a shadowed presence, wearing what looked like a jacket with the same symbol she’d later see in her photographs: the two-headed wolf.
Outside, lying on the cold street floor, lay the men. The one with the gun had been killed, gunshot to the heart with his own revolver. The other gasped for air as he crawled back towards the bar entrance. Caitlyn rushed and kneeled next to the man, asking who had been the attacker, only one word escaping from the man’s lips before perishing:
“Red.”
The inside of Caitlyn’s car smelled like cigarettes and some expensive perfume her mother had given her years before. The revolver secured in her shoulder holster felt heavy pressing on her side, barrel cold against her freshly washed shirt. Before exiting the vehicle, the investigator stuffed a pack of cigarettes and a matchbox inside one of the pockets of her black overcoat. The wind sang in her ears as she made her way towards the club, watching as other people walked the same path.
Getting in was easy. Using a well-made fake ID card — the name was Louise Hart — she waltzed right in. A foul smell instantly crept into Caitlyn’s nostrils as she stepped into the underground club. The place was barely lit by flashing, colored lights diffused by the smoke of the club dwellers’ pipes and cigarettes. Immediately to her right were four sets of rounded tables, all complete with Zaun’s most prominent personalities. Their laughter was loud, but their conversations were hushed, eyes darting towards the staff door on the far wall as though waiting for something. Caitlyn caught snippets of talk — words like “brutal round” and “the champ” slipped through the din of the club.
One man, dressed in an unbuttoned vest and covered in tattoos, leaned back in his chair, jangling a pocketful of coins. His companion tapped a worn betting slip against the table.
“Odds are stacked against her tonight,” Caitlyn overheard, the edge of his smirk visible as she passed. “New blood’s got a hell of a swing.”
The faintest tremor rolled through the floor beneath her boots, almost imperceptible but distinct enough to feel like the bass wasn’t the only thing shaking the club. She tucked this detail into the back of her mind, adjusting her coat as she moved. As her gaze swept the room, she spotted a flash of white hair and a familiar green jacket near the bar. Keeping her focus sharp, she moved across the crowded floor. Caitlyn skirted around the bar seats, slipping past a crowd of dancers as she approached the northernmost part of the club. Sitting beside her friend, Caitlyn signaled the bartender, who promptly slid her a mug of cold ale.
“Never pegged you for a beer drinker,” Ekko threw her a smirk, taking a generous gulp of his own mug. “So, what’s the story this time? You don’t just show up here for fun.”
“That’s because I’m not,” Caitlyn lifted the cup towards her mouth, sipping at the bitter drink. “Have you received the photographs?”
The man nodded and leaned back against the bar, eyeing Caitlyn with curiosity. “That jacket. The two-headed wolf. Yeah, I’ve heard of them. People call them Raging Stallion. They’ve been making waves in the pit. Name’s been buzzing around.”
“The pit?” Caitlyn leaned in, lowering her voice.
He nodded toward the far side of the club, where the staff door loomed under dim light.
“Down there. Underground fights. Big money, big egos, and no shortage of blood. It’s where all the noise comes from — big crowds, bigger stakes. Everyone's been talking about Raging Stallion lately, but I’ve never seen them myself. Just what I’ve picked up from…” A pause. “Friends.”
“Is that the only way down?”
Ekko hummed. “Guards won’t let you through unless you’re on the list or know the right bribe. Two big guys — won’t be easy to slip past.”
“And Raging Stallion?” Caitlyn pressed.
The man shrugged. “They’re a fighter. Good one, too, so I’ve heard. But as for who they really are? No clue. If you want answers, you’ll have to get past those bodyguards.”
“I’ve handled worse.” She glanced toward the door, her mind already working through possibilities. “Are you sure this is the best lead?”
“It’s the only one you’ve got,” Ekko said, crossing his arms. “But I still don’t get what you’re after, Cait. This isn’t your usual scene.”
Caitlyn glanced toward the door. It wasn’t going to be easy. She turned back to Ekko. “Thank you, Ekko. I owe you one.”
Ekko chuckled, raising his mug. “Don’t make me wait too long for that, alright?”
As Caitlyn took in the layout of the club and the guards by the staff door, an idea began to form. She scanned the crowd, noticing a group of men a few tables away who were already getting rowdy. As she watched, a loud, boisterous man nearby was making his move on a woman sitting with a man at a nearby table. The woman looked uncomfortable, trying to politely deflect his advances, but the man didn't take the hint.
“Come on, sweetheart, don’t act shy,” he said with a smirk, leaning in too close. “How about we ditch this place and find somewhere more private?”
Her companion, a burly, intimidating figure, noticed the exchange. His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, speaking through gritted teeth, “You’ve got some nerve.”
The boisterous man laughed, noticeably drunk and completely unaware of the trouble he was about to bring upon himself. “Relax, pal, I was just—”
Before he could finish, the larger man stood up, fists clenched. “You don’t touch my girl.”
The air was thick with tension as the two men squared off. Caitlyn watched, trying to stay out of the way but knowing this was the perfect opportunity. As the altercation escalated, she sidled up to a nearby table and murmured just loud enough for the guards to hear, “Guess some people don’t know how to keep their hands to themselves. Hope someone can break up that mess before it gets worse.”
The guards glanced over at the commotion, immediately moving to intervene, trying to separate the two men before the situation got violent. As they focused on the escalating brawl, Caitlyn stepped quietly toward the staff door, slipping past the distracted guards and disappearing into the shadows.
Caitlyn made her way down a narrow, dimly lit hallway, the flickering overhead lights casting long, erratic shadows against the peeling walls. The air was thick with the scent of oil and sweat, a mixture that seemed to cling to every surface. Graffiti sprawled across the brick walls in chaotic, colorful bursts, tagging the space with names, symbols, and half-finished drawings that blended into a collage of defiance. The ground beneath her boots was slick, damp with the residue of spilled drinks, oil stains, and whatever else the club's patrons had left behind.
Pipes ran along the walls, some of them hissing faintly as they creaked under pressure, their jagged metal edges casting jagged reflections in the flickering light. The sound of distant music pulsed through the walls, muffled but constant, blending with the muffled voices and the occasional clink of metal against metal from deeper within the building.
Caitlyn adjusted her coat as she moved, keeping her gaze steady and her steps deliberately unhurried, careful not to attract attention in a place like this. She didn’t belong, not in a club like Spark Plug, but the longer she acted as if she did, the more likely she was to blend in with the crowd.
At the end of the corridor, the oppressive silence broke, and she emerged into the chaotic roar of the pit. A swarm of people surrounded the circular arena, shouting, betting, and pushing against the railings. Caitlyn was immediately swallowed by the crowd, her focus sharp as she scanned the shifting mass of bodies, eyes drawn to the violence unfolding before her.
Caitlyn eased her way through the crowd, the heat of the arena pressing in as she got closer to the pit. The murmur of voices grew louder, punctuated by shouts and bets being placed, but her focus remained fixed on the center of the ring.
The match was nearing its end. The tall, brutish figure dominating the fight was hard to miss. His massive frame, easily close to seven feet tall, towered over his opponent, who was staggering on his feet, barely able to defend himself. The man’s metal jaw gleamed in the low light, a glint that contrasted sharply with the rest of his rough, tattered appearance. He swung a heavy fist, the blow landing with a sickening thud against his opponent’s ribs. The crowd roared as the smaller fighter crumpled to the floor, blood dripping from his lips, his arms flailing weakly.
Caitlyn’s eyes narrowed as she observed the scene. The big man wasn’t finished yet, though — he was taking his time, savoring the spectacle. This wasn’t the kind of brutality she needed to be involved in, especially not while she was still hunting for answers.
She turned away before the fight could fully end, moving quickly to the edge of the crowd. There was no point in staying too close now — she had already gathered enough information about the man’s fighting style, the atmosphere of the pit. She needed to keep her wits sharp and observe the rest of the club, maybe catch a glimpse of anything that could lead her to more answers.
Caitlyn scanned the room again as she slipped past the crowd, her gaze catching the worn wood of the bar at the far side of the pit. A few seats were open, though the place was still packed with eager spectators. She moved toward the bar, careful not to draw attention, and slid onto the nearest stool.
The bartender nodded at her as she sat, his hands busy polishing glasses. Caitlyn took a moment to observe the people around her. The air was heavy with smoke and the scent of alcohol, and the murmur of conversations mixed with the shouting of the people around the pit.
Beside her, a hooded figure sat in silence, their attention focused entirely on their drink. The figure’s posture was relaxed, but there was something about the way they held themselves — an air of quiet confidence, like they were in control of the world around them.
Caitlyn leaned slightly toward the bartender, her voice low. “Whatever they’re having,” she said, nodding toward the hooded figure, who hadn’t yet acknowledged her presence.
The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. He poured a drink from a nearby bottle, the dark amber liquid sloshing into a glass. He slid it over to Caitlyn without a word. She grabbed the glass and took a small sip, savoring the burn as it slid down her throat. The drink wasn’t anything special — rough and strong, the kind that made the edges of her thoughts sharper. She turned her attention back to the pit, waiting for the next move, eyes scanning the crowd for any more signs of the vigilante she had come for.
As Caitlyn took another sip of her drink, the hooded figure beside her shifted slightly, just enough for Caitlyn to catch the low murmur of their voice.
“Careful not to miss the next fight, piltie,” came the teasing tone, laced with a hint of flirtation. The figure didn’t turn entirely towards her — just a slight tilt of the head — but Caitlyn caught the shift in their posture. The comment had a playful edge, yet there was something about it that made Caitlyn’s attention sharpen.
The investigator raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. She leaned slightly toward the hooded figure, lowering her voice just enough to be heard over the noise. “What do you mean, pil—”
But before she could get another word out, the figure shifted again, sliding smoothly off the barstool. One moment, they were there, and the next—gone. Caitlyn’s gaze snapped to the empty space beside her, her fingers still loosely wrapped around her drink. The stranger had vanished without a sound, leaving only the faint scent of the drink and a lone glass abandoned on the counter.
Caitlyn’s eyes lingered on the empty stool for a moment longer, the unsettling feeling of being brushed off hanging in the air. She wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was it that obvious she didn’t belong here? That her Piltover roots were so easy to see, even in the shadows of a club like Spark Plug? She had always prided herself on blending in, but perhaps there was something about her — her posture, her demeanor, her accent — that betrayed her.
Caitlyn’s mind lingered on the figure’s words. Careful not to miss the next fight, piltie. The teasing tone grated at her, but she pushed it aside. She wasn’t here to get distracted by petty insults or uninvited comments. She had a job to do. She drained her mug in one go, the bitter taste lingering as the glass hit the counter with a soft clink.
She swallowed hard, focusing her thoughts. The woman’s voice had been a reminder—almost a challenge. A challenge that nudged her forward. Caitlyn straightened, adjusting the collar of her coat as she melted into the crowd, her movements smooth, practiced. She wove her way past dancers and drunks, careful not to draw attention to herself, but eager to find a better vantage point.
The buzz in the air was palpable as the crowd surged around the pit, shouting bets and making last-minute trades, all eyes fixed on the action below. Caitlyn moved through the sea of focused faces, her gaze scanning the crowd for what she needed. The pit pulsed with energy, the room already shifting as the next fight loomed. There was no room for hesitation now. She edged closer to the front, slipping between bodies, her sharp eyes tracking the growing anticipation. This was it — the moment she’d been waiting for.
Suddenly, the announcer's voice erupted through the room, loud and commanding, silencing the crowd for a brief moment. “Ladies and gentlemen!” He boomed. “The last fight of the night! The grand prize — the winner takes it all!" His words sent a ripple of excitement through the crowd, eyes snapping to the pit, the tension thickening as the anticipation mounted.
“First up, the reigning champion!” The announcer’s words seemed to energize the room. “Mountain!”
Caitlyn's eyes followed the crowd's attention as the man appeared from a dark corridor on the farthest side of the pit. Mountain. The same hulking man from the last fight made his way into the center of the pit. The fighter grinned as the crowd roared in approval, and with a brutal show of dominance, he smashed his fist against his chest, gloating in the reaction. His presence was as imposing as his name.
The announcer’s voice rang out again, sharp and commanding, amplifying the tension that hung heavy in the air.
“And now… the moment you've all been waiting for!" His words echoed, setting the crowd into a frenzy. "The challenger — Raging Stallion!”
Caitlyn’s pulse quickened, her breath shallow. Every muscle in her body was taut with anticipation as she strained to see through the throngs of people. Her eyes darted between the shadows, searching for any hint of movement, anything that would reveal the figure behind the name. The crowd’s excitement grew louder, but Caitlyn barely registered the noise, her entire focus fixed on the dark corridor at the far side of the pit.
Who was it? Who was hiding behind that name?
She could feel the weight of her question pressing down on her chest, each passing second stretching longer than the last. The air seemed to hold its breath, and Caitlyn, her heart hammering in her chest, could only wait — wait for the figure to step into the light.
After what felt like an eternity, the figure finally emerged from the shadows. A woman, tall and formidable, her presence immediately commanding the attention of the entire room. She stood at about five foot seven, a stark contrast to the towering figure of Mountain. Her appearance was striking—her body was lean, but muscular, a fighter’s build, with strong arms and broad shoulders covered in ink. She wore nothing but ripped black jeans and boots, the fabric of her jeans stretched tight over her thighs. Her chest was wrapped in bandages, binding her form and concealing any softness beneath the rough exterior.
Her hair — black with streaks of red — fell in wild waves around her face, the same as the woman in the photographs the investigator had studied earlier. Her gaze, intense and unwavering, swept over the crowd, and Caitlyn could feel the energy shift again. This was it. This was the fighter she’d been searching for.
Raging Stallion.
The crowd roared in approval, but Caitlyn’s focus remained entirely on the woman, her eyes tracing every detail. The way she carried herself, the way she walked, the confidence in her step — it was all part of the same enigma Caitlyn had been chasing for so long. Caitlyn couldn’t help but feel drawn to her, a mixture of admiration and something else. Something unfamiliar and unsettling.
The clang of the gong rang out, signaling the start of the fight. As soon as Mountain turned to face Raging Stallion, the woman moved with a speed that took Caitlyn’s breath away. She surged forward, her fist striking with brutal precision.
For a brief, spine-chilling moment, the entire room fell silent. Mountain’s expression shifted from cocky confidence to shock as the force of the punch collided with his jaw. The metal that adorned his face flew through the air, spinning in a jagged arc before landing somewhere in the pit. His massive body crumpled to the ground, crashing with a sickening thud.
The crowd held its collective breath, frozen in disbelief. Then, as if on cue, the roars of astonished spectators exploded around Caitlyn. But she barely heard them — her mind raced, her focus entirely on the woman now standing victorious in the pit. This was the Raging Stallion, and Caitlyn knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was closer than ever to unraveling the mystery she’d spent so long chasing.
The investigator watched as Raging Stallion’s hand gripped her fist tightly, the muscles in her forearm rippling as she clenched it. Caitlyn’s breath caught for a moment at the raw power on display. She could almost feel the force of that punch, the certainty with which the woman moved. And when Raging Stallion faced off against Mountain, her body taut and poised, Caitlyn couldn’t tear her gaze away. As the crowd roared around her, the investigator watched in awe as Raging Stallion turned her back to her side of the pit, tattoos in full display, and shouted, which seemed to energize the people even more.
The fighter’s back was a canvas of intricate tattoos. The cogs, drawn in sharp, geometric shapes, spiraled across her shoulder blades and down her spine, as if the very gears of her body were tattooed in motion. The patterns seemed to pulse with life, almost as if they were a map of the battles she’d fought. Her arms were covered in swirling, cloud-like designs, soft in contrast to the hard edges of the mechanical patterns on her back. They stretched from her shoulders down to her forearms, winding around her biceps with an elegance that contrasted with the raw strength they symbolized.
The crowd's cheers still echoed in Caitlyn’s ears, but her focus remained on the fighter as they turned, disappearing into the shadows behind the pit. Her eyes tracked every movement, her mind already working through the possibilities. She couldn’t let the Raging Stallion slip away, not now. The tattoos, intricate and full of meaning, had sparked something in her — there was a story behind them, one she was determined to uncover.
She surveyed the room, trying to piece together a plan. The underground arena was dimly lit, but she was still able to spot a narrow hallway leading off to the side, obscured by the shifting crowd. It wasn’t much, but there was something about it that didn’t quite fit. The hallway wasn’t packed with people like the main floor; it was quieter, less traveled. Could it be a back exit, or perhaps where the fighters went to cool off? She needed a way to get closer without drawing attention.
Caitlyn shifted slightly, pulling a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she moved toward the hallway, keeping her body language casual, as if she was just another patron looking for more action. She made sure to keep her gaze low, as though she were scanning the floor for something she'd dropped.
As the investigator neared the edge of the pit, she spotted a tall figure — one of the bodyguards she’d seen earlier. He was watching the crowd, but his gaze flicked over her for a second too long. Caitlyn paused, heart quickening, then smiled slightly, adjusting her stance to appear as if she were just lost in thought.
The last thing she needed was to draw attention.
She continued toward the hallway, taking care to blend into the chaos. She could almost feel the weight of the fighter’s presence in the air—just beyond the wall of sound. Time was ticking. She needed to move quickly, before the Raging Stallion vanished into the underbelly of Zaun.
Caitlyn’s footsteps were light as she moved through the narrow hallway, her eyes flicking to the doors that lined the walls. Most were nondescript, their surfaces chipped and worn from years of use, but one door in particular caught her attention. A two-headed dog was scrawled in black paint across its surface, its eyes fierce and alert. It was an unmistakable symbol.
Bingo.
Her heart raced, and for a brief moment, she considered the risks. But there was no turning back now. The Raging Stallion was behind this door, or at least, this was the place where she might find her. She looked both ways, ensuring the hallway remained empty, before carefully reaching for the handle. Her fingers grazed the cool metal, and she turned it slowly, being mindful not to make a sound.
The door creaked open, and she slipped inside.
The room was eerily quiet — no sounds of footsteps, no murmurs of conversation. Just the hum of distant noise from the pit above. Caitlyn paused, taking in her surroundings. The room she stepped into was small and dimly lit, its air stale and heavy with the scent of leather and sweat. It had the feel of a backstage dressing room — stripped of glamour but practical for its purpose. The peeling paint on the walls gave it an almost forgotten look, as if no one cared to maintain it. Against one wall, a dirty full-length mirror hung crookedly, its edges framed with grime. The glass was smudged, distorted by years of neglect, but still capable of reflecting the room’s humble fixtures. A nearly empty clothing rack stood nearby, holding only a few forgotten garments.
Faint shadows clung to the corners, where a small rounded table sat, accompanied by two wooden chairs, their surfaces worn from use. Thrown over the table was a black leather jacket, a patch on its back that looked too much like the symbol that adorned the outside of the door of the room she was in.
Caitlyn’s breath caught when her eyes fell on it. The jacket was familiar. The very same one that appeared in the photographs she had studied — distinctive in its design and the faded patches that lined its sleeves. This was it. The Raging Stallion’s jacket. It was a perfect match.
She stepped closer to the table, her pulse quickening. This was a clue — one of the few tangible pieces she’d been able to find.
Caitlyn ran her fingers over the smooth leather. There was a sense of intimacy here, the jacket almost waiting for its owner to return. It was hard not to feel like she was trespassing in a private space, a place where the fighter shed their identity before stepping into the pit. But she couldn’t back down now.
The sound of footsteps outside the room jolted her from her thoughts.
Caitlyn’s heart hammered in her chest as the footsteps grew louder, closer. She didn’t have much time. Without thinking, she darted across the room, positioning herself behind the clothing rack, pressing her back into the corner, her breath shallow. The dim light cast long shadows across the floor, and she melted into the darkened corner, her movements swift and deliberate.
The footsteps were now just outside the door. She could hear the faint shuffle of boots on the concrete, the low murmur of voices—two people, maybe more. Her pulse quickened, but she forced herself to remain still, knowing that one wrong move would give her away.
The door handle rattled, and Caitlyn stiffened. The lock clicked, the door creaking open slowly. She held her breath, eyes locked on the gap in the doorframe.
A figure stepped inside, silhouetted by the faint light from the hallway. Caitlyn’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t the Raging Stallion. This person was taller, their gait slower, more deliberate. A guard, perhaps?
The door opened wider, and the man entered, his eyes scanning the room with practiced precision. He was one of the bodyguards from the club floor, the same one Caitlyn had seen earlier. The man paused at the table, his hand lingering over the leather jacket as if weighing it in his mind. Then, without a word, he stepped to the corner of the room, his back turned to where the investigator hid. She could feel the tension in the air, like the calm before a storm. Her breath was steady now, but every muscle in her body was coiled tight, ready to react if he spotted her. The silence in the room felt suffocating, broken only by the soft rustle of his clothing as he moved.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the clothing rack, the wood splintering slightly beneath her grip. The jacket was still there, mere feet away. It felt like a lifeline, a connection to the Raging Stallion. But Caitlyn couldn’t afford to be distracted. She had to stay focused. The man muttered something under his breath, his attention still on the jacket, and Caitlyn took a slow, steadying breath, praying he wouldn’t turn and notice the slight shift in the air as she adjusted her position.
She could hear the faintest sound—another set of footsteps, lighter, faster, coming from the hallway. This time, they were the right ones. A familiar rhythm.
Her heart skipped.