Piltover gleamed in the late afternoon sun, clean streets and polished brass reflecting a world that never slowed for Zaun-born children like him. Eryx Solace moved through the crowds with a predator’s ease, blending into merchants and strolling apprentices. To anyone else, he was just another well-dressed man navigating the city. To Alina Sinclair, he was unseen — for now.

She exited the workshop where she’d been refining a Hexcore prototype, satchel in hand, boots tapping lightly on the stone steps. Her mismatched eyes scanned the streets, alert to the hum of carriages and the bustle of inventors’ apprentices. A stray spark of chem-powder residue on her fingers caught the light.

Eryx fell in behind her, careful to keep the distance. Too close, and she would notice; too far, and he lost control. He noted the guards stationed at intersections, the street vendors blocking clear lines of sight, the timing of the streetlights and automaton patrols. Every obstacle was an equation, and he had all the variables in his head.

She’s predictable, he thought, even here, in Piltover’s towers.

The alley she chose to cut through toward a quieter street was narrow, lined with crates and shadowed corners — perfect. Eryx adjusted his pace, staying in the background, the faintest shadow among brighter ones. He didn’t reach for his weapons yet; tonight wasn’t about violence. Tonight was observation. Tonight was control.

He let himself remember — just for a moment — the girl tinkering with gears in her parents’ shop years ago, her stubborn focus, her sharp laugh. Then he pushed the memory away. Childhood didn’t matter anymore. She was a target. A complication. A prize.

Tonight, he would decide which she would be.