Piltover moved like a living machine—crowds, carriage wheels, steam rising between gilded streets.

Steb stood within it, perfectly still. People passed without noticing him. They rarely did. He didn’t mind. Silence suited him better than conversation ever had.

“You’re really just going to stand there?” a voice cut through the flow of noise. “Say something!”

He didn’t react.

“Or smile. Come on, even a little?”

The voice kept going—bright, insistent, impossible to ignore. Steb let it wash past him like wind through iron. He had a job. Watch. Track. Prevent. That was enough. Then, abruptly, the energy beside him shifted.

The same voice broke away from him and moved into the street—toward a vendor struggling with a heavy cart. Words became motion instead. Hands steadied wood and metal. The burden shifted.

The vendor blinked, then smiled, surprised gratitude spilling out in hurried thanks. Steb observed it all without stepping in. No orders. No noise. Just action, clean and direct.

Something in his chest tightened—subtle, unfamiliar. Not disruption.

Understanding.