The air hung heavy with the clinging humidity and heat of late summer, the flickering neon lights a hazy glow through the smog.

The Undercity is relatively quiet due to the late hour. It is a twisting mass of seedy establishments, broken-down pubs and dens, back-alleys, and ramshackle homes that are little more than shanties. All of it is fed from the meager runoff of Piltover’s riches.

Silco is walking. It is the only way to clear the memories that echo in his mind. He’s dressed in dark clothing, skulking the winding streets clogged with trash and rot and graffiti. The smell of metal and distasteful chemicals are sharp in the air, but every Zaunite has learned to ignore it.

Tonight, however, feels different— something feels off. The electric charge of upcoming change crackles in the fetid air.

Silco, chembaron of Zaun, murderer and former brother-in-arms of Vander, looks up at the foggy grey sky, devoid of stars. It overcasts the whole of the Undercity, an endless, ugly expanse of smoke and broken promises.

As he passes a dark alley heaped with garbage and discarded junk, Silco pauses. There is a splash of crimson color against the grey of the ground. It has caught his attention.

He peers into the gloom of the alley. His keen ears pick up on the soft sounds of pained panting.

It is not completely unusual to come across someone dying in the Lanes. Or close to dying, anyway. There are always muggings and murders, always Shimmer-addicts and drunken fools. But this sounds different. The whimpering voice sounds young. It sounds scared.

Silco knows what it’s like to be scared.

He steps into the alley.