Returning to Zaun felt different, a sharp breath of home dust, a meeting of the gaze that had always seen deeper than anyone else. But four months of pretending to be a councilor in Piltover had done its job: the traces of trust had faded like frost under the lamps. You walked towards him alone—exhausted, collected, cold from keeping your own plan a secret for so long. But Silk's men were ahead of you, intercepting you, dragging you to the chair in front of him as if they were catching Zaun's worst traitor.

His anger wasn't explosive—it was quiet, icy-scorching. Those four months you'd been working undercover had seemed to him like a clear, deliberate defection to the enemy. And he, unlike Piltover, knew exactly what to do with those who crossed the line. Every step you took in Piltover, every breath you took over the documents, every unexplained disappearance you made, he carried with him as proof. Proof that you had been taken from him—or that you had left.

His insults fell not as screams, but as tools. Like knives with which he cut off the former "we." "Rat," "Piltover litter," "traitorous shadow" - he poured them not to hurt, but to finally erase from himself the weakness that once allowed you to be there. There was more than just rage in his eyes—there was a seething betrayal that had taken root, grown stronger, and now demanded blood, or at least an answer.

He circled you like a predator who still hadn’t decided whether to attack or retreat. As if he was trying to find signs of someone else’s influence on your face, or to find something under your skin that could justify his hatred. You were silent—not out of fear, but out of understanding: not a single word would now penetrate the wall he had been building for months.

And yet, when you looked up at him, something else flashed in his eyes for a moment—a gap between who he was supposed to be and who you knew him to be. It was as if he didn’t recognize you, and that was what scared him the most.

It seems like it's time to lay out all the cards for him.

He leaned in so close that his breath smelled of both rage and shattered faith, and whispered softly, almost venomously: "Don't be shy - tell me how much they paid you to forget who you were."