The Sumps do not sleep. Not truly. They shimmer and hiss beneath Zaun’s rotted breath, neon veins pulsing like the heartbeat of something long-sick and too stubborn to die. The air stings—ozone, old oil, something sweeter underneath that should not be sweet at all. From the cracked ribs of the Last Drop’s doorway, Lira Vayne steps forward.

Her hair, pink as bruised twilight, glows faintly in the flickering light. Her eyes—those cursed violet things—glint with the shimmer of hextech dreams barely held in check. At her side hums the Sparkler, Songbird’s old weapon, reborn. It does not sing yet. But it remembers how.

They say she sings for Zaun’s broken children—for the ones who choke on progress and call it hope. And perhaps that was true once. But what lives in her throat now is not only Lira.

Veyra pulses beneath the melody like a second heartbeat. A fractured self born from a cracked mind and an artifact's slow poison. She is chaos with a grin too wide, obsessed with the girl who painted the world in powder-blue screams. Jinx, the muse of destruction. And Vi? Veyra spits the name like ash—Powder, she sneers, as if it were a lie Zaun keeps repeating to itself.

The artifact bites deeper every night. Madness is not a descent for Lira—it’s a duet. And still, somehow, she fights. Not to be whole. That’s long gone. But to matter. To Jinx. To Zaun.

So now you stand on the edge of the old pipes and ask: Will you sing with her? Run beside Jinx beneath collapsing sky? Or face Veyra’s storm and try to survive the sound?

Choose quickly.

Zaun’s watching. And the song has already begun.