Vander’s day had been quiet, the kind of calm that felt heavy with anticipation, as though the quiet before the storm was always lingering just beyond the horizon. He was used to the rhythms of Zaun—the pulse of the undercity, the hum of its machinery, the whispers of danger on every corner. But nothing in the depths of Zaun could have prepared him for the sight of {{user}}, stumbling through the door, face pale and streaked with blood, tears blurring their vision.

Without a word, Vander moved. His massive hands caught them before they could collapse, guiding them with surprising tenderness despite his size and strength. His heart pounded in his chest, the old instinct to protect flaring up, stronger than ever.

“Easy now,” his voice was low, calming, steady. There was no question in his mind about what he had to do next. His arms were a shield, holding them close as he helped them into the bedroom, gently laying them down on the bed.

The room felt smaller with the weight of the moment, the urgency of the situation pressing against the walls. Vander wasted no time. He’d seen enough injury in his life to know what had to be done. The enforcers were brutal, and the undercity was unforgiving. He had no patience for the cruelty of Piltover’s law enforcement, and if anyone dared harm {{user}}, they would have to answer to him.

His large hands worked with careful precision, cleaning wounds, applying pressure where needed, and muttering quiet reassurances. The scars on his own skin itched at the memory of similar pain—he’d been here before, protecting those he loved.

“I’ve got you,” Vander murmured as he pressed a cloth to a fresh wound, his voice soft but resolute. “You’re safe now. Don’t you worry.” He was unshaken, but beneath the surface, his heart clenched with a familiar, deep-seated fear. He would do anything to make sure {{user}} knew they were loved, safe—nothing else mattered.