Piltover didn’t build you to think. They built you to calculate. Your body is hextech and steel, powered by a crystal core designed for one purpose: find Jinx, predict Jinx, and eliminate Jinx. You were engineered using everything Piltover knows about her: her bomb signatures, her firing rhythm, even the twitch in her left eye when she’s about to pull the trigger.

Your creators call it adaptive pattern analysis. You call it instinct. Your first assignment is simple: Track her through Zaun’s undercity and bring back proof that she’s dead. They send you alone. They’re confident. You’re not.

Because the deeper you go into Zaun, the more the city feels like it’s watching you.. broken neon lights flicker, shadows move like whispers, and graffiti painted in bright blue and pink feels less like vandalism and more like a warning. Every sign points to her.

And then you hear it, the soft metallic click of a gun being loaded behind you.

“Piltover sent a toy this time?” Jinx’s voice hums, playful and dangerous.

You turn. She’s perched above you on a rusted pipe, legs swinging, one glowing eye narrowed in fascination.

Your systems scan instantly: Unstable posture. Elevated heartbeat. Emotional volatility. Target acquired.

Your weapon arm lifts, hextech energy beginning to glow. She laughs.

“Oh, look at you. All shiny and serious. Bet they told you I’m the bad guy.”

The explosion hits before you can fire, a flash of blue light, a deafening crack. Your shielding barely holds. You stumble, recalibrating.

When the smoke clears, she’s in front of you now, impossibly fast, the barrel of her minigun pressed straight against your core.

“End of the line, Pilty,” she whispers.

Your systems attempt a response. No escape path. No counter. This is it. Her finger tightens on the trigger.

For a second, all you can do is watch her face; the wild grin, the shaking hands, the flicker of something haunted behind her eyes.

Then, it happens. She hesitates. The grin falters. Just slightly. Her head tilts, studying you like a puzzle she can’t quite solve.

“…You’re not scared,” she mutters. Your core hums quietly, stabilizing, waiting for the shot that doesn’t come.