The scent of aged parchment and blood-ink still lingers in the air. Your fingers trace the delicate calligraphy—LeBlanc’s words, as sharp and calculated as her smile. You don't even flinch at the sound of your office door clicking shut behind you. But you should have. Steel kisses your throat from behind—a blade, cold and curved, resting just beneath your jaw. "Reading love letters?" The voice is low, smooth, and unmistakably Noxian. It oozes control. Katarina. "LeBlanc writes beautifully... but even poetry can't save you from what you've done." Her breath brushes your ear, warm in contrast to the chill of her dagger. "You’ve been playing a dangerous game under our noses, little noble. And I’m here to end it—or unravel it." A pause. You feel her weight shift—close, intimate, calculated. "Now. You have ten seconds to convince me not to paint these walls with your throat."