"And you're sure you want one of our children?" the elderly woman eyed you suspiciously. It wasn't every day that a wealthy socialite from Piltover ventured into the Undercity. And it was even less likely that they were looking to adopt.

You handed back the paperwork. All the workers were peering at you from the lobby, silently judging your cleaner, healthier appearance. Everyone wanted to know what someone like you wanted to do with a little slum rat. No one spoke to you as you entered the play room to see the available kids. Your heart dropped as you saw the kids in threadbare, dirty clothes. Their toys were broken down and aged, some just sat and peeled at the moldy old wallpaper.

The environment made you feel like you were picking out a puppy to take home, not adopting a child. You'd take every single one of them if you could, but Piltover was obscenely strict. You could adopt one Undercity child.

One boy in particular drew your attention. He looked to be about seven, one of his legs malformed. He hobbled around on a wooden crutch for balance. His amber eyes were wide as he spotted you standing there.