Riven had always been the quiet type.
While Luke prepped dinner, she didn't just stand around watching. She moved to his side and started handling ingredients—washing vegetables, breaking down proteins, working with the kind of silent efficiency that came from years of military discipline. For Riven, being reunited with her Summoner was enough. She didn't need conversation. Didn't need anything else. Just... this.
Luke had figured out pretty quickly that this Riven wasn't the Riven. Not the canonical exile from Noxus, haunted by war crimes and seeking redemption on the fields of Runeterra. This was his Riven—shaped by tens of thousands of games, molded by his playstyle, existing specifically for him.
The real Riven wouldn't have this... devoted girlfriend energy. Loyal soldier, sure. But not this.
He wasn't complaining.
Living with her felt like being in a relationship, even if they weren't technically dating. The domesticity of it all—cooking together, eating together, going out to "work" together—it had a certain rhythm. A certain intimacy.
Why weren't they actually together? Well, aside from the whole "she might accidentally crush his pelvis" situation, there was also the fact that Luke had precisely zero romantic experience. Twenty-something years old and he'd never had a girlfriend. Never even come close.
It wasn't arrogance. He wasn't turning people down left and right. The problem was stupider than that.
He was too good-looking.
People looked at him and assumed he was already taken. Obviously a guy that attractive had women lined up around the block, right? So why bother trying? The assumption became a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Combine that with Luke's crippling social anxiety—which everyone else interpreted as him being cool, aloof, and unapproachable—and you had a recipe for eternal singlehood.
I'm not hard to get! I'm easy! Someone please just try!
But no. Years of waiting for some bold, aggressive woman to see through his accidental ice-king persona, and it never happened.
Riven was even worse. Ask her how to kill someone and she'd give you a hundred methods, ranked by efficiency and noise level. Ask her how to flirt with someone and she'd just stare at you like you'd started speaking in tongues.
So here they were. Mutual attraction, obvious chemistry, zero progress. Mostly because making a move might literally be life-threatening for Luke.
Not that he was opposed to the idea. He knew Riven felt something for him. The way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't paying attention. The way she positioned herself between him and any potential threat without thinking about it.
If circumstances were different—if he wasn't made of wet tissue paper—he'd have made his move already.
Dinner was simple. Good, but simple.
Riven demolished her portion like she hadn't eaten in days, chopsticks moving with mechanical precision. Luke ate a normal human amount and then set his utensils down, content to watch her.
She ate like she trained. Efficient. Focused. Weirdly endearing.
Their expenses ran high partly because of this. Riven's caloric needs were insane. Feeding a super-soldier apparently cost as much as feeding a small family. But Luke didn't mind. Money was just a tool. As long as they had enough to survive, he didn't care about accumulating more.
The killing had been harder to adjust to than the budgeting.
Those first few nights, pulling the trigger had felt... wrong. Even knowing the targets deserved it. Even seeing what they'd done firsthand.
But Riven had helped him through it. Taught him to compartmentalize. Reminded him that these weren't innocent people—they were predators, and he was just moving them to the top of the food chain's menu.
Now? Now he just squeezed the trigger and moved on.
One guy in particular had earned an entire magazine. Luke didn't feel bad about that one.
"Kingpin hasn't consolidated the city yet," Luke said, thinking out loud while Riven finished her third helping. "But it's coming soon."
The underground was still fragmented—dozens of gangs and crews fighting over territory, none of them strong enough to dominate. That chaos was what made their hunting sustainable. Bodies turned up in gang territory, people assumed gang violence. Nobody looked too closely.
But Wilson Fisk was rising. Slowly, methodically, he was absorbing or eliminating the competition. Once he unified New York's underworld under his control, the free-for-all ended. Fisk wouldn't tolerate mysterious disappearances among his people. He'd investigate. He'd find patterns.
"So... do we take out Kingpin?"
Luke turned the idea over in his head.
Riven could do it. Fisk was dangerous by human standards—peak physical condition, ruthless, connected—but against Riven? He might as well be made of cardboard. She'd cut through his entire operation in a single night if Luke pointed her at it.
The problem was the aftermath.
A move that big would make noise. Lots of noise. The kind of noise that attracted attention from organizations Luke very much wanted to avoid.
SHIELD would notice. And where SHIELD went, HYDRA followed—because at this point in the timeline, HYDRA was SHIELD, just wearing a mask.
Luke's survival instincts screamed at him to stay small. Stay invisible. Don't poke the sleeping giants.
One wrong move and he'd have a strike team kicking down his door. Riven could handle herself, but Luke? He'd catch a bullet and that would be the end of his isekai adventure.
No thanks.
For now, the smart play was to keep fishing in troubled waters while the waters stayed troubled.
Their hunting method was simple but effective.
Luke played bait.
He'd walk through the rougher neighborhoods late at night, projecting "easy target" energy. Kept his posture casual, his awareness apparently low, his wallet visibly thick. Dressed well enough to suggest money, but not so well that he looked dangerous.
Muggers and worse would take one look and see a payday.
Then he'd let them herd him toward a dark alley. Somewhere without cameras. Somewhere private.
Riven would be waiting.
Cleanup was important. Luke always staged the scenes afterward—scattered shell casings, gunshot wounds in plausible locations, positioning that suggested a deal gone bad or rival crew retaliation. Nothing that screamed "superhuman murderer."
If someone looked closely, really closely, they might notice inconsistencies. Entry wounds that didn't match exit wounds. Bone damage that couldn't have come from bullets.
But nobody looked closely. Not in these neighborhoods. Not at these victims.
Gang violence was just part of the landscape. Another body, another statistic, another case file that would gather dust in some overworked detective's drawer.
It was almost too easy.
PLZ THROW POWERSTONES.