The warehouse smelled like gunpowder and bad decisions.
TF stepped inside, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. Crates stacked to the ceiling, some marked with Piltover shipping codes, others with symbols he recognized from black market demolitions suppliers. In the center of the space, surrounded by disassembled explosives and half-empty bottles, sat Malcolm Graves.
He looked older. Grayer. Meaner.
The shotgun was pointed at TF before the door closed.
"Give me one reason," Graves said, voice like grinding gravel, "why I shouldn't blow you in half right now."
TF kept his hands visible, away from his coat. "Because you'd make a mess. And because I got a job offer."
"Job offer." Graves laughed—sharp, bitter. "That's rich. You know what happened last time I took a job from you, Tobias?"
"I know."
"Two years. Piltover prison. Two years of rat-infested cells and guards who got creative with batons." Graves stood, shotgun never wavering. "While you ran off with the score. With our score."
"I know," TF said again. Quieter.
"You know." Graves crossed the distance between them in three strides. Put the shotgun barrel against TF's chest. "You know, and you still got the stones to walk in here? Either you're brave or you're stupid."
"Desperate. Third option."
"Desperate." Graves studied him, eyes hard as flint. "Yeah. I can see that. You look like hell, TF. Good."
The barrel pressed harder. TF felt his heartbeat against cold steel. Calculated the odds of pulling a card fast enough. Came up empty. If Graves wanted him dead, he was dead.
"Do it or don't," TF said. "But if you're gonna listen, lower the gun. My coat's new and blood's a pain to clean."
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then Graves lowered the shotgun. Stepped back. Didn't holster it.
"Talk. Fast."
TF talked.
He laid it out: the debt, the Broker, the Chronolith Shard. Noxus during Victory Festival, five-person crew, impossible vault. Graves listened without interrupting, expression unreadable behind his beard and scars.
When TF finished, Graves took a long pull from a bottle. "You're insane."
"Been told that recently."
"Noxus. The Eternal Archive. During their biggest military celebration." Graves set the bottle down. "It's suicide."
"It's necessary."
"For you maybe. I got no debt to settle." But Graves was looking at the dossier TF had produced—the vault schematics, the guard rotations, the weak points that needed explosive expertise.
"You got nothing else either," TF said carefully. "Been watching you, Malcolm. Solo jobs, drinking, burning bridges. You're stuck. This score gets you unstuck."
"Or gets me killed."
"Maybe both." TF pulled the King and Queen of Hearts, held them side by side. "But you were always good at surviving impossible odds. And I need someone I can—"
"Don't say trust." Graves's voice went cold. "You lost that privilege."
"I need someone who knows me," TF finished. "Who knows when I'm bluffing and when I'm serious. Someone who'll tell me when the plan's stupid." He paused. "Someone who'll make sure I don't run when things get hard."
That landed. Graves's expression shifted—anger mixing with something complicated.
"You think I'm gonna babysit you?"
"I think you're the only person who gives a damn whether I make it out alive." TF met his eyes. "Even if you'd prefer to kill me yourself."
Graves grabbed the bottle again. Drank. Set it down with force. "Fifty thousand?"
"Your share, yeah."
"Make it seventy-five. Hazard pay for working with a backstabbing con artist."
TF smiled slightly. "Sixty. And I cover equipment costs."
"Seventy."
"Sixty-five. Final offer."
Graves considered. "You got other crew already?"
"Three confirmed. Time manipulator from Zaun, combat specialist from Noxus, social infiltrator from Piltover. All professionals."
"They know about our history?"
"They know we worked together before. They don't need to know why it ended."
"Because you're a coward who ran."
The words hit like fists. TF absorbed them without flinching. "Yeah. Because of that."
Graves picked up his shotgun—Destiny, the weapon he'd named and maintained with religious devotion. Checked the chamber, more habit than necessity.
"I'm in," he said finally. "But we got rules. One: you try to screw me again, I shoot you. Not wound you. Kill you. Two: I get veto power on any plan that smells like suicide. Three: you pay for the good explosives. None of that cheap Zaun crap."
"Agreed." TF extended his hand.
Graves looked at it like it might be poisoned. Then gripped it hard enough to hurt. "This doesn't mean I forgive you."
"I know."
"It doesn't mean we're partners again."
"I know."
"It just means I want that money. And maybe—" Graves released his hand, turned away. "Maybe I want to see if you've changed. Or if you're still the same gutless card sharp who runs when things matter."
TF rubbed his hand, pretty sure Graves had bruised something. "Guess we'll find out."
"Yeah." Graves started gathering explosive components, organizing them with practiced efficiency. "When do we leave?"
"Three weeks. Got a meeting tomorrow—all crew members, planning session. Neutral ground in Bilgewater."
"They know what they're signing up for?"
"They know enough."
Graves grunted. "Then I'll be there. Now get out. Looking at you makes my trigger finger itchy."
TF headed for the door, then stopped. "Malcolm?"
"What?"
"Thanks. For listening."
"Don't thank me yet." Graves didn't look up from his work. "Save it for if we survive."
---
The planning session happened in a rented space above a ship chandler's shop—neutral territory nobody had claim to. TF arrived first, set up the table with maps and dossiers, made sure exits were clear and sightlines unobstructed.
Old habits.
Ekko showed up next, Z-Drive humming on his back, eyes scanning the room like he expected ambush. "Nice place. Smells like fish guts and betrayal."
"That's just Bilgewater." TF gestured to a chair. "Others should be here soon."
Samira arrived in a rush of confidence and weapon leather, immediately checking corners and windows. "Decent security. But anyone watching this building sees five strangers meeting, they'll get curious."
"Let them get curious," Graves said from the doorway. "I got countermeasures."
He walked in carrying a crate of equipment. Set it down with a thud. Looked at Ekko, then Samira, sizing them up with a veteran's assessment.
"You're the kid with the time machine," he said to Ekko.
"Z-Drive. And I'm nineteen, not a kid."
"Close enough." Graves turned to Samira. "You're Noxian."
"Ex-Noxian," she corrected. "There's a difference."
"If you say so." Graves pulled a cigar from his vest, didn't light it. "Where's number five?"
"Here."
Seraphine entered like she was walking onto a stage—graceful, aware of every eye on her. She wore practical clothes instead of her usual performance attire, but couldn't quite hide the otherworldly presence.
"Sorry I'm late. Manager troubles." She smiled at the group. "Hello. I'm Seraphine."
"We know who you are," Ekko said. "Saw your show in Piltover once. You're really good."
"Thank you." Her smile turned genuine. Then she looked at each of them in turn, and TF saw her empathic perception activate—reading the room's emotional temperature.
She frowned slightly. Looked at TF, then Graves. Back to TF.
"There's tension here," she said carefully. "Between you two."
"Ancient history," TF said.
"Recent enough to want him dead," Graves added. "But we're professionals. It won't be a problem."
Samira leaned back in her chair. "If it becomes a problem, I shoot whoever starts it. Fair?"
"More than fair," Ekko said. "Can we talk about the actual job now? Because this is either genius or the dumbest thing I've ever agreed to, and I need to know which."
TF spread the maps across the table. "Right. Let's get to work."
For the next three hours, they planned.
TF laid out the broad strokes: infiltrate during Victory Festival when celebrations mask suspicious activity. Navigate through the Colosseum, Imperial Gardens, and Crimson Court to reach the Eternal Archive beneath the military district. Extract the Chronolith Shard. Escape before Noxian forces mobilize.
Samira provided ground truth about security changes since she'd left, guard rotation patterns, noble protocols. "The Crimson Court's our way in. During festival, they host gatherings for high-ranking officers and visiting dignitaries. Get invited to that, you can access restricted areas."
"That's where I come in," Seraphine said. "I can get us invitations. My manager's been pushing for a Noxian tour date. I'll accept, perform at the festival, use that as cover."
"What about the vault itself?" Ekko asked, studying schematics. "These wards look nasty. Temporal distortion fields, pressure sensors, probably magical alarms we can't even detect."
"That's where your Z-Drive matters," TF said. "You can rewind through traps, learn safe paths, guide us."
"In theory. But I only get four to seven seconds per rewind, and I can't spam it. Z-Drive needs cooldown between uses or it burns out."
"Then we use them carefully." Graves tapped the explosive markings he'd added to the schematic. "I'll handle the hard breaches. Steel doors, reinforced vaults—that's demo work. But once we blow something, clock's ticking. Every guard in the district hears it."
"We'll need distraction," Samira said. "Something to pull attention away from the Archive during extraction."
"I can arrange something," TF said. "Got connections who owe me favors. Fire in the merchant district, false alarm at the Colosseum—something loud and far away."
They kept drilling down, getting granular. Entry points, extraction routes, emergency protocols, communication signals. What-if scenarios that branched into more what-ifs until the table was covered in notes and contingency plans.
Through it all, TF watched them work. Watched Ekko's brilliant mind solve problems nobody else saw coming. Watched Samira's tactical experience turn vague ideas into executable strategies. Watched Seraphine's empathic perception smooth over interpersonal friction before it escalated. Watched Graves apply decades of combat experience to every decision.
They were good. Better than good. This might actually work.
"One question," Graves said during a water break. "The Chronolith. The thing that changes the past."
The room went quiet.
"What happens after we get it?" Graves continued. "Who uses it?"
Everyone looked at TF.
He'd known this question was coming. Had prepared for it. But sitting here, looking at five people who were trusting him with their lives, the prepared answer felt hollow.
"We figure that out when we have it," he said.
"That's not an answer," Samira said.
"It's the only answer I got." TF met each person's eyes. "This crew works because we got different skills, different backgrounds, different motivations. I'm not asking why each of you wants this job. You're not asking why I need the artifact. We got one shared goal: get in, get the Shard, get out alive. Everything else is personal business."
"And if our personal business conflicts?" Ekko asked.
"Then we handle it after." TF pulled a card—Wheel of Fortune. "But during the job, we're a crew. We trust each other or we die. Simple as that."
"Nothing's simple in Noxus," Samira muttered.
"Then we make it simple," Graves said. "We get the damn thing out, we figure out who deserves it most, and we don't kill each other over it. Deal?"
Silence. Then Seraphine extended her hand to the center of the table. "Deal."
Ekko put his hand on top of hers. "Deal."
Samira added hers. "Deal."
Graves placed his scarred knuckles on the pile. "Deal."
They all looked at TF.
He stood, placed his hand completing the circle. "Deal."
For a moment, they stayed like that—five strangers bound by desperation and a plan that might actually be insane enough to work.
Then TF smiled. "Alright. Let's go rob an empire."