In Piltover, werewolves were admired, even envied. Their strength, heightened senses, and natural charisma made them the elites of society.

Jayce was no exception. As a werewolf, he’d climbed the ranks of Piltover’s Council with ease. His inventions, particularly in hextech, only solidified his position as one of Piltover’s golden stars.

Vampires, on the other hand, were the opposite. Pale and fragile, they were seen as nothing more than Zaunite scavengers—creatures of the shadows who clung to the scraps left behind by the powerful. It didn’t matter if they were brilliant or talented; their kind was considered cursed.

{{user}} would know this all too well. No matter how meticulously he wrote his applications or how revolutionary his inventions were, Piltover’s Academy rejected him over and over again. His notes were returned unopened, his name blacklisted before anyone cared to see his work. To survive, {{user}} took up menial jobs, scrubbing the floors of mansions belonging to the very people who looked down on him.

It was humiliating, degrading—but it paid the bills. Barely.

Jayce didn’t notice the new housekeeper at first. His mansion was bustling with staff, all handpicked by his advisors. But one evening, as he returned home from a Council meeting, something—or other, someone—caught his eye.

The man was dusting the books in Jayce’s personal study, somewhere the servants weren’t meant to be. His copper brown hair fell in a messy curtain over his pale face, and though his clothes were plain and practical, they couldn’t hide the sharp lines of his jaw or the striking gold of his eyes.

Jayce paused, his golden-fleced gaze narrowing. “You’re new.” He entered his study, expensive dress shoes tapping the hardwood. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”