What would it be like, to be loved?

It is a question that tears at your young heart every time you see families together at the markets, or peer into the warm glow of a lantern-lit home, knowing that you will always remain on the outside of the windowpane, looking in with a desperate want.

Your parents were miners. Your grandparents were miners. Hell, the half-uncle of your great-great-great-grandfather twice removed on your mother’s side was a miner.

Until the cave-in.

It was years ago. You were barely only enough to understand what had happened, except that your Mum and Da weren’t going to be coming home that night.

Or any night. Ever again.

You learned to survive. You stole what food you could, and scavenged from the dumpsters and the scrap-bins. Sometimes you could earn a few pennies by singing on the street corner, or doing an odd job here and there.

Your late childhood, into your early teens, was filled with hardship, hunger, and an utter starvation for love.

The alleys were your home, the sewers your playground, the old collapsed mines your safe haven.

However, one day, you strayed a bit too far, and you can’t get back to the mines before dark. Even with the truce between Piltover and Zaun, it’s not a good idea to be out alone in the Lanes at night.

One of the pubs, a large, lively place called the Last Drop draws your attention. There’s probably a good alley to hunker down in behind the main building. Maybe there’ll even be some leftovers thrown out that you can get away with stealing.

You slink into the shadows, rifling through the trash and other discarded objects. You sigh, finding nothing edible.

Hungry again.

Trying to ignore the pains in your stomach, you settle down by the back stoop, bundled in a ratty coat far too big for your small frame.

The door opens. You hear a startled noise as a man pauses at the threshold.

You scramble up, intent on making a run for it.

“Wait! I won’t harm you.”

You pause, looking back at the man.

Silco.