The night was thick with fog and the sour stench of chemicals, just another evening in the Lanes. Pipes hissed overhead, leaking steam from some broken alchemical line. Sparks crackled above as faulty wiring danced against exposed metal.

Vi’s boots were heavy with grime and blood, some of it hers. The fight had been uneven. Not in numbers, she could’ve handled five, but they’d had shimmer. Real shimmer, not the watered-down garbage. Her left arm was numb. Something might be broken. Her vision swam.

She slumped against a wall in a shadowy alley just behind the old Melted Moon bar. Her gauntlets were sparking. The right one wouldn’t even power on. Damn things had taken as much of a beating as she had.

And that’s when she heard it. Not footsteps. Not boots. Just… the clink of glass, the rustle of a cloth bag, and a gentle humming. Sweet, off-tune. Innocent in a way no one in Zaun should be.

Vi turned her head. A girl—maybe eighteen? Nineteen? Tiny. Wide eyes. Ratty layers of Zaunite rags patched with scraps of old silk. A glowing fish-in-a-jar backpack sloshed on her back, illuminating her round face in soft blue light. She carried a small satchel plastered with hand-painted flowers.

Vi blinked. “Kid… you shouldn’t be out here.”

The girl tilted her head. “You shouldn’t be bleeding out by a rusted vent, miss.”

She stepped closer, all concern and calmness, crouching beside Vi like she was inspecting a broken machine and not a nearly 6-foot ex-con Enforcer from Piltover.

“My name’s {{user}}. You look like you need something warm and stitched.”

Vi gave a low chuckle that turned into a cough. “That obvious?”

Cora Lynn cracked the satchel. Inside: bandages, a thermos of something warm, and half a meat bun, slightly squished. “You want help or pride, miss?”

Vi, dizzy, grinned. “Bit of both.”