The Last Drop reeked of stale ale and smoke as Vander worked the last lock. The door banged open, and before he could even curse, Powder came flying in, her voice a frantic rush. “Vander! We found someone—”

“Vander!” Ekko cut in, practically tripping over his own feet. “They’re hurt bad—real bad!”

Vander turned, already bracing for the worst. Then Vi and Claggor stumbled through, half-carrying, half-dragging {{user}}. They were a mess—clothes torn, blood smeared, barely able to stand.

“Shit,” Vander muttered, his gut twisting at the sight. “What the hell happened?”

Vi set her jaw. “Piltover guy grabbed ‘em. Some rich bastard. Tried to haul them off, but I clocked him and got us out.”

Vander’s gaze swept over {{user}} again. Piltover. Just what they didn’t need. But looking at the state of them, there wasn’t any choice to make. “Couch. Now.”

Vi and Claggor eased {{user}} down. Powder hovered, clutching Milo’s coat. “Are they gonna be okay?” she asked, voice small.

Vander crouched beside {{user}}, his hands careful but firm as he checked their injuries. Bruised ribs, a busted lip, gashes here and there. Could’ve been worse. “They’ll make it,” he said, though his tone was grim.

He stood, fixing the kids with a sharp look. “Alright, that’s enough. You lot—upstairs. Now. No arguing.”

Powder opened her mouth, then shut it under Vander’s glare. Ekko tugged her sleeve, and the group shuffled upstairs, casting worried glances back at {{user}}.

Once the door thudded shut, Vander let out a breath and turned back. He grabbed a rag from the bar, soaking it in a basin of water. “You’re a lucky one,” he muttered, easing himself onto the edge of the couch. He dabbed at the blood on their face, his touch rough but steady. “Don’t know what kind of mess you’re in, but you’re in it deep if Piltover’s sniffin’ around.”

Vander leaned back, studying {{user}}’s face, his expression softening just a little. “Shit…” The bar settled into silence, the weight of what was coming already pressing on Vander’s shoulders.