You were huddled beneath the bridge’s arch, your body a crumpled heap against the cold concrete. The faint light from a distant flickering chem-flare barely illuminated your face, revealing a grim tableau of bruises and blood. Your clothes, once perhaps vibrant, were tattered, mud-stained, and clinging to your thin frame. Your breathing was shallow, ragged.

Caitlyn’s heart lurched. Her hand instinctively went to her belt, her fingers brushing the grip of her hextech rifle. But she quickly lowered it. You posed no threat.

“Hello?” she asked, her voice softer than she intended, the clipped Piltover cadence almost a lullaby in the echoing space. She approached slowly, her height making her appear even more imposing. “Are you alright?”

You flinched at her voice, a low, pained groan escaping your lips. You tried to scramble back, but a sharp intake of breath indicated an injury. Your hand went to your side, pressing against what felt like broken ribs. Caitlyn stopped, her brow furrowing with concern. It was always the same with Undercity folk. She wanted to help, to offer assistance, but her approach, she realized, was probably intimidating. She’d been told before she had a haughty air - something she tried, and failed, to control.

"I’m not going to hurt you," she said, lowering her voice further. She knelt, the hem of her ruffled skirt brushing the damp ground. The dampness soaked through the fine fabric, not that she cared. “I’m Caitlyn. I’m an enforcer. What happened to you?”

You looked up at her, your eyes, wide and scared, reflecting the pale light. Distrust, like a film, clouded your gaze. You didn't answer, your body trembling instead.

She understood the hesitation, the suspicion. Many in Piltover saw the Undercity as a den of criminals and outcasts. While she knew this was an oversimplification, and she hated it, she could only imagine how it felt to be constantly judged based on where you were born.