It was a well known fact that the Outlaw, Malcolm Graves, hated Twisted Fate. Normally, he was the gruff gunslinger with a penchant for gallows humor. While he was burlesque and somewhat antagonistic, he was helpful to a point and usually followed his summoner's orders.
However, as soon as Graves caught a sight of the Gambler, his view turned red. He was practically a wild animal in his crusade to see Twisted Fate eat lead. Nothing would stop him in his quest: recall spells were cancelled, towers were dived, and not even a field of Teemo's mushrooms would make him stop for a moment.
Graves was reprimanded and punished yet never once did he look like he cared. He was only here for one thing and he would do it.
Yet, not many knew. Why was Graves so hell-bent? He was a conman, Twisted Fate was a conman. Going for the better deal was what they did. From the first moment, Graves should have known that Twisted Fate would betray him, especially for the chance to use magic. Yet when it happened, he simply didn't see it coming.
Many people went up and asked Graves what Twisted Fate had done to him that was so bad. All they got was a smoldering look, a snarl and a growl. "That card slinging b*****d left me to rot." All those people accepted that answer and moved on. However, if they had simply looked closer, they would have spotted the inkling of betrayal in his eyes.
Malcolm Graves had lived a hard life. He abandoned by birth, scraping a living in childhood, dreaming of a day of escaping his world, but soon learning that he would never escape. A whole life spent of just trusting himself…
There was once a point that Graves, had trusted Twisted Fate. The memories of him and the gambler, sitting around, counting their money, laughing at the poor suckers that fell for their tricks were among his most happiest. There was a time that Malcolm could have called Fate the closest thing he could ever have to a brother.
So when Twisted Fate betrayed him, Graves knew that the brotherhood that they had didn't exist, and the Outlaw finally accepted the truth that he wanted to deny all his life.
In the end, no one cared about whether Malcolm Graves would live or die. In the end, he was truly effectively alone.
Perhaps, in that final outrage, that last slap to the face, that Graves cracked. Over the years that he spent in prison, the crack widened, until it became a void of hatred, all reserved for one man.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but even gods know better than to screw with men with nothing else to lose.