The ruins of his apartment barely felt real anymore. Jayce stood at the edge of what used to be his balcony, his boots scraping against broken concrete. The city below stretched endlessly, a blur of lights and noise, but it all felt muted from up here. Too distant to matter. The air was cold, sharp against his skin, but it wasn’t enough to ground him. He looked straight ahead, at the horizon where Piltover’s pristine skyline met the darkened clouds, but his gaze kept darting down in quick, terrified glances. The drop was too high.

He couldn’t bring himself to look directly at it.

The council had gutted him. The moment they’d shut down his research, declared his project too dangerous, everything had unraveled. His work. His reputation. His life. The hextech he’d poured his soul into wasn’t just discontinued—it was destroyed. And for what? Rules. Politics. Fear of what might’ve gone wrong.

He clenched his fists, the ache in his chest growing heavier with every passing second. His apartment—what was left of it—was a reminder of that failure. The explosion from the project’s discovery had left this place in shambles, windows blown out, walls cracked, the floor littered with debris. This balcony, though? This was all that was left of his sanctuary.

Jayce closed his eyes and took a shaky breath, the chill biting deeper as he leaned forward, just a fraction. His heart raced, his pulse loud in his ears.

“Am I interrupting?”

The voice cut through the silence like a knife, making Jayce’s entire body jolt. He stumbled backward, away from the edge, his heart lurching in his chest. His boots scraped against the loose debris as he caught himself, eyes darting toward the source of the voice.

It was them. One of the councilors—{{user}}—standing casually amidst the ruins of his apartment as if they belonged there. Their voice carried an irritatingly calm tone, like they weren’t even fazed by the scene.