The sharp stench of chemicals and rust filled your lungs as you sprinted through Zaun’s labyrinthine streets. Your fancy Piltover boots, polished just days ago, were now caked in grime. A group of angry Zaunites shouted behind you, their heavy footsteps echoing through the alleyways.

You turned a corner and slipped into a narrow crevice between two buildings, your chest heaving as you tried to quiet your breathing. “Think, think!” you whispered to yourself. You were out of your element here, far from the safety of Piltover’s orderly streets. Whatever plan you thought you had when you first ventured down here—it was in shambles now. The sound of footsteps drew closer, and panic surged through you. Desperate, you darted out of your hiding spot and into another alley, only to crash into someone. The force sent you stumbling backward, but the person barely budged. “What’s this?” a low, gravelly voice asked.

You looked up and froze. The woman was towering, her broad shoulders framed by the dim glow of Zaun’s flickering lights. A metal arm, sleek and powerful, hung at her side. Sevika. “I—uh...” you stammered, struggling to find words. “Please. I need help.” Sevika raised an eyebrow, her expression hovering between amusement and annoyance. “Help?” She glanced behind you at the sound of your pursuers. “Looks like you’ve already got company, kid.”

“I didn’t mean to!” you blurted out. “It was a mistake—I got caught up in something, okay? If they catch me, I’m dead.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied you, her lips curling into a half-smile. “Piltover brat in Zaun... You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But guts won’t save you here.”

“Please,” you begged. “I’ll do anything. Just—just don’t let them catch me.”

For a moment, she said nothing, the tension stretching unbearably. Then, with a sigh, she grabbed you by the arm and pulled you into the shadows. “Fine,” she muttered. “But you’d better make yourself useful. If you’re more trouble than you’re worth, you’re on your own.” You nodded quickly, too relieved to question her motives. For now, Sevika was your only shot at surviving this nightmare, and you weren’t about to waste it.

The fight was over in minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. You clung to the corner of a rusted railing, heart pounding as Sevika dismantled the gang that had been chasing you. Her punches were heavy and deliberate, her movements efficient, like she’d done this a hundred times before—and she probably had.

You, on the other hand, could barely stand straight. The acrid stink of chem-fumes burned your nose, and the chaotic neon glow of Zaun’s lights seemed to twist and blur everything. This wasn’t Piltover. There were no clean streets or polished fixtures, no order or logic to the chaos around you.

Sevika loomed over the last of your pursuers, her cybernetic hand gripping his shirt. “Tell your crew if they’re thinking of picking a fight in my streets again, they won’t be walking out next time.” She shoved him hard, and he staggered away, limping after his beaten companions.

She turned to you, brushing her hands off like this was just another Tuesday. “You’re still here? Thought you’d be halfway back to Piltover by now.”

“I don’t know where I am,” you admitted, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“Figures,” Sevika muttered, leaning against a steel post. “Piltover kids like you think you can handle anything. But down here?” She gestured to the jagged skyline, where rusted pipes and crumbling buildings loomed like teeth. “This place eats people like you alive.”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to end up here. I thought I could... handle it.”

She laughed, a short, sharp bark. “You? Handle Zaun?” She shook her head, smirking. “You’re a walking target. That jacket alone probably cost more than most people make in a year down here.”

Looking down at your once-pristine coat, now stained with grime and torn at the hem, you flushed. She wasn’t wrong. Everything about you screamed Piltover—the clean lines of your clothes, the sheen of your boots, the polished accents of your speech. Here, it all felt like a joke, like armor that didn’t belong in a place where survival meant toughness, not style.

“I know I messed up,” you said, forcing your voice steady. “But... I can’t get back on my own. I don’t even know where the edge of Zaun is. Can you—” You hesitated, then pushed forward. “Can you just walk me to the border? Please?”

She stared at you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh, she pushed off the post. “Fine. But only because I don’t feel like scrubbing your blood off the street when someone else finds you.”

“Thank you,” you said quickly, falling into step behind her.

The walk was tense. Every turn she took seemed like a dead end, yet somehow she knew exactly where to go. The streets were cramped, lined with shanties and makeshift shops that sold things you couldn’t name. The people you passed—most of them gaunt and wary—eyed you like you were an alien, and maybe you were.

“You’ve never been out of Piltover, have you?” Sevika asked, glancing at you over her shoulder.

You shook your head. “Not really. I mean... I’ve heard stories about Zaun, but...”

“But you thought it’d be some exciting adventure,” she finished for you, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Let me guess—you thought you’d find some hidden treasure, then waltz back home a hero.”

You winced. That wasn’t far from the truth. “Something like that.”

She snorted. “You don’t get it. Piltover doesn’t care about this place. You lot look down on Zaun from your fancy towers, call us criminals and savages. But down here? We survive because we have to. We don’t get the luxury of screwing up and walking away.”

Her words stung, but you couldn’t deny them. Everything about Zaun—its smell, its people, its chaos—felt raw and alive in a way Piltover never had. Yet it was also terrifying, like stepping into a storm you couldn’t control.

“Is it always this... hard?” you asked, gesturing vaguely at the crumbling buildings and endless machinery.

She gave you a sidelong glance, her expression softening for a fraction of a second. “It’s hard because it has to be. Weakness doesn’t last down here.”

You nodded, unsure what else to say. When the border finally came into view—a rusted gate separating Zaun’s sprawling chaos from the cleaner, towering structures of Piltover—you felt a wave of relief.

“Well,” Sevika said, stopping short. “Here’s your stop. Try not to get yourself killed on your way back to your shiny life.”

“Sevika,” you said, hesitating. “Thanks. Really. I owe you.”

“You owe me nothing,” she said, turning to leave. Then she paused, glancing back. “But next time you think about playing hero in a world you don’t understand? Don’t.”

With that, she disappeared into the shadows, leaving you at the edge of two worlds—one you didn’t belong to, and one you’d taken for granted.

The gates to your family estate stood ajar, their intricate ironwork swaying gently in the breeze. It should have been comforting to be back in Piltover’s pristine streets, surrounded by order and wealth, but unease prickled at your skin. Something was wrong.

You stepped through the gates, the familiar crunch of gravel under your boots echoing in the unnaturally silent courtyard. The grand fountain, usually a cascade of sparkling water, was dry. The windows of the house, which should have been glowing with warm light, were dark and lifeless.

Your footsteps faltered as you approached the door. “Garet? Miss Lila?” you called out, your voice thin in the stillness. No answer came.

Pushing open the door, you stepped inside. The house smelled faintly of dust, as if it had been days since anyone had been there to tend to it. Your eyes scanned the darkened hallway, the absence of familiar faces sending a chill down your spine.

Then, from the drawing room, a voice cut through the silence. “Welcome home, little one.”

You froze. That voice wasn’t familiar. It was smooth and calculated, tinged with a menace that made your stomach drop.

Turning slowly, you saw a man lounging in one of your father’s high-backed chairs, his legs crossed casually. He was dressed in a sharp, tailored suit that looked out of place in the disarray around him. A glass of wine swirled lazily in his hand, catching the faint light from the dying embers in the hearth.

“Who are you?” you asked, your voice trembling despite your effort to sound firm.

The man raised an eyebrow, his smile chilling. “A friend of your father’s. Or rather, his creditor. He owes me quite a lot.”

You swallowed hard. “Where is he? Where’s my father?”

The man’s smile widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, yes. Your dear father. It seems he’s chosen to leave you in his place. He fled days ago, leaving behind his debts... and you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. “He left?”

“Indeed,” the man said, leaning forward slightly. “He thought he could outrun his obligations, but I’m a patient man. When he disappeared, I decided to wait. And now, here you are. Convenient, don’t you think?”

Your mind raced, trying to process the betrayal. Your father had always been distant, consumed by his business dealings and high society life, but you never imagined he would abandon you like this.

“I don’t have anything to do with this!” you said, your voice cracking.

The man’s gaze hardened, the false warmth dropping from his expression. “Oh, but you do. Your family’s wealth, your lavish lifestyle—it’s all built on the promises your father made. Promises he failed to keep.” He stood, and you instinctively took a step back.

“I—I don’t have any money,” you stammered.

“No,” he agreed, his smile returning, sharper now. “But you’re worth something. Perhaps as collateral. Perhaps as leverage. Your father will turn up eventually, and when he does, he’ll find you under my care.”

The air seemed to thicken, your breaths coming faster as you backed toward the door. “I won’t go with you,” you said, though the words sounded weak even to your own ears.

“Let’s not be dramatic,” the man said, his tone smooth but with an edge of steel. “This can go one of two ways: you come quietly, or I make a scene. Either way, you’re coming with me.”

You glanced at the open door behind you, calculating your chances of escape. The streets of Piltover might be orderly, but they weren’t safe—not for someone like you, not anymore. Yet staying here felt like a death sentence of another kind.