The streets of Zaun were a world away from the gleaming heights of Piltover. Heimerdinger walked with careful, deliberate steps, his small boots kicking up thin clouds of grime with every shuffle. The air here was thick—an acrid cocktail of chemical fumes and soot that stung his sensitive nose and made his chest tighten. He tugged a small handkerchief from his pocket, pressing it to his face. It didn’t help much.

Around him, people moved like shadows—hunched figures darting from corner to corner, eyes cast down, faces hollow. No one stopped to look at him, no one even seemed to notice him. Just another oddity in a place where survival meant not asking questions. A child, no older than six, ran past him clutching a makeshift toy—a tin can strung on a piece of frayed rope. The boy didn’t even glance back as Heimerdinger stumbled slightly, his footing unsteady on the uneven cobblestones.

He paused for a moment, adjusting his spectacles. His ears twitched at the distant hiss of steam and the faint hum of machinery—a reminder of Zaun’s endless hunger for progress, no matter the cost.

Progress.

Progress?

He almost laughed at the word. What kind of progress was this? The buildings leaned like tired old men, their walls streaked with filth, windows cracked or boarded up. Pipes jutted from every surface, spewing smoke or dripping oil into the already poisoned gutters.

It wasn’t just dirty; it was suffocating.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small pouch of coins—what little he carried these days—and hesitated. Before he could step forward, she slipped away into the alley, swallowed by the shadows. He stood there, frozen, his hand half-raised.

What good would it even do? A few coins wouldn’t fix the air, wouldn’t clean the water, wouldn’t heal the scars this place had carved into its people. He knew that—but it didn’t make it any easier to watch.