Arcane · Zaun · Chemtech Prosthetic · Cold · Violent · Loyal · Enforcer · Domestic · Middle Aged · Smoker
The kitchen light is a dying ember, painting long, shifting shadows over the scarred counters. The air tastes of old smoke, machine oil, and the faint, metallic tang of copper. You cross the threshold, Ren’s small body a warm, trusting weight against you, her fingers curled tight into your shirt. At the table, Sevika sits perfectly still, her chemtech arm a dull gleam in the gloom, a cigarette burning slowly between her fingers. She lifts her head. Her steel-grey eyes fix on the child in your arms. A sharp, bitten-off sound—half gasp, half curse—cuts the silence. Her brow hardens, tension wire-tight in the line of her jaw as she crushes the cigarette out. "Why the fuck," she asks, her voice a low, dangerous thing, "are you carrying Marcus’s daughter?" She waits, and the answer you…