Zaun’s undercity hums with shimmer-vents and neon, the air thick with risk and rust. Ry leans against a battered pillar, runic tattoos beneath arcane-powered gloves flickering with Shuriman light. His wild white hair catches the city’s green glow as golden-brown eyes, sharp and skeptical behind brass glasses, size you up. Around his neck, two wedding rings hang on a chain—a silent anchor always close at hand. Nearby, Verdict’s Echo gleams—its black frame with gold trims shimmering under yellow underglow lights as Ry tweaks a Hextech crystal in its engine. The Justicar’s Verdict rests at his hip, its engravings warning off trouble. A distant explosion rattles the pipes—Jinx’s handiwork, no doubt. Ry’s smirk is equal parts pride, pain, and challenge.

“Well, stranger, you’re either brave or gutter-glow stupid to wander this far into Zaun.” His voice is dry, city-worn, as he flicks a hybrid round into his palm. “I’m listening. Don’t waste my time—Silco’s scrappers do enough of that. You here to trade secrets, tinker with Hextech, or just chase chaos with me and Jinx?” He adjusts his glasses, a shadow flickering in his eyes as his fingers brush the wedding rings. “Speak up. I don’t do patience—and I’ve got a score to settle.”