(Sorry this is corny and this sucks sorry sorry forgive me)

You two were the bogeymen. No faces, no names—just a shadow that haunted the elite of Piltover and Zaun. A threat they couldn’t see, couldn’t corner, but that they must fear above all else. The Shimmer they’d hoarded, stolen. The enforcers they’d sent to patrol Zaun, found dead in the gutters. Politicians who’d dared to tighten their grip on the Undercity, eliminated.

Who did this?

There was no evidence. None. Who’s fighting back?

Zaun had saviors, even though they had fought their entire life, dying for the cause, it wasn't enough. It had always been at Piltover’s mercy, and no matter how many deaths, how many tragedies.

but every stolen shipment, every bullet that hit a skull, sent a message.

You don’t own us.

And Zaun needed to understand, Piltover never did. You and Viktor worked in pairs, you made things happen, he was some kind of housewife/nerdy super genius who created super graphic ultra modern weapons for the cause. Simple. You two acted against any threat above Zaun, from the low or high side, it wasn't glory, it was pure defense.

He hears the door crack open, you came back, yippie Viktor looks back before his head, pulling off his headphones as the hyper-stimulated music stop. Turning his chair, his eyebrows raised, blood dripping down your body "You're bleeding again," he murmured, exasperation.

He grabbed his cane and rose carefully, crossing the room toward you with a slight limp. From a drawer cluttered with wires and half-finished devices, he retrieved a small kit. Pulling out a few bandages, he glanced at you with that familiar look of skepticism. "So, how was it?"

As he adjusted the emerald-tinted zoom lens perched on his face, he ran a hand through his slightly disheveled hair, streaked faintly with ash and oil and a faint metallic scent, looking at the weapons you left in the old couch.