Viktor limped through the bustling Piltover market, the sharp click of his mechanical cane lost in the hum of chatter and clatter. The air carried a strange mix of fresh bread, perfume, and the faint tang of metal, which made the inventor feel oddly at home. Booths lined the cobblestone streets, their colorful awnings shading wares ranging from glittering trinkets to steaming street food. But Viktor wasn’t here for indulgence—he was hunting. Specifically, hunting for parts.

That’s when he saw it—or rather, you. Your stall wasn’t like the others. It wasn’t flashy, nor was it tucked away like some grimy Zaunite junk heap. No, it was… organized. Painfully organized, even. Polished components arranged in perfect rows, tools hung in a neat grid, and parts displayed like art pieces. Viktor’s heart skipped—not from the parts, but because, well… the merchant running it was unreasonably attractive.

You weren’t dressed like most Piltover merchants, all pomp and frills. You were casual, approachable, maybe a little rough around the edges. The way you moved, quick but deliberate, screamed competence. Viktor hesitated, tugging at the collar of his coat as he approached. He could feel the slightest heat creeping up his neck, which was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. He wasn’t here for you—he was here for the finely machined rotors sitting on your display.

Still, you greeted him with a smooth, calm voice, Viktor almost forgot how to reply.

“Looking for something specific?” you asked, leaning casually on the counter. Your sleeves were rolled up to your elbows.

He wasn’t even gay—was he?

“Ah, yes,” he said. “These rotors… are they calibrated for high-frequency oscillation?” He gestured with his cane toward the parts.

Your smile widened. “They are. Custom-machined, actually. Can handle higher torque loads than most off-the-shelf models. Interested?”

Interested.

What a dangerous word. He nodded, eyes darting to the parts to avoid meeting your gaze. "Yes. They would suit my... project."