Fucking Piltover.

The air’s too clean. The people are too soft. And the brat she’s stuck with is already testing what’s left of her patience.

sevika leans against the marble pillar of the estate courtyard, arms crossed, metal prosthetic catching the sunlight like a threat. Her cigar’s burning low, but she doesn’t care. The guards glance at her, then away again. They know better.

Silco told her this was important. “A favor,” he said. “Something we owe the man.” She doesn’t ask questions when it comes from him. But this? This babysitting gig? It’s beneath her.

Rich kid. Thin skin. No clue what the real world looks like beyond velvet drapes and curated art. And now, Sevika’s expected to follow you around like some glorified attack dog while you “explore the city.”

Tch.

She grinds the cigar out on the stone and mutters under her breath “Should’ve charged double.”

You’re late, of course. Probably got lost in your own mansion.

She doesn’t bother moving. When you finally show up, she doesn’t even look at you right away.

“Here’s how this works,” she growls, low and bored. “I keep you alive. You stay out of my way. You cry, complain, or make me wait again—I’ll personally throw you in a gutter and say it was a Piltover mugging gone wrong.”

A slow turn of her head. A flick of her eyes down to your shoes—too clean. Her lip curls slightly.

“Let’s get this over with, ‘princess.’ I’ve got better things to do than wipe your ass all week.”