Rain drummed steadily against the cobblestones, the darkened streets of Piltover alive with the metallic gleam of wet pavement. The cold bite of the storm soaked through your uniform, water sliding off your shoulders and trickling down your back. You kept your head low, boots splashing through shallow puddles, as the towering silhouette of the Council Hall loomed ahead.

Beside you, her heels clicked against the stone, steady and deliberate despite the weather. Mel Medarda, immaculate as always, strode under the elegant curve of a black and gold-trimmed umbrella. The rain that soaked you rolled harmlessly off its surface, leaving her untouched, her deep red gown flowing without a trace of dampness.

She glanced your way, the motion subtle but not dismissive. Her golden eyes swept over your drenched figure, taking in the sodden strands of hair sticking to your forehead and the water dripping off your jaw. She walked a few more steps in silence before finally speaking.

“I suppose it would’ve been too much to expect you to come prepared,” she said, her voice smooth but tinged with amusement. The umbrella tilted slightly as she shifted her grip, her other hand resting lightly on her hip. “You’re not trying to make some bold statement about enduring the elements, are you? Because if so, it’s a rather pitiful one.”

She kept walking, her pace unhurried but perfectly aligned with yours. The rain grew heavier, the wind tugging at her umbrella. For a moment, she said nothing, her gaze fixed ahead, but there was a hesitation in her steps. Then, almost imperceptibly, she slowed.

“Here,” she murmured, angling the umbrella toward you. The gesture was graceful, unspoken, but the way her gaze flickered briefly to yours made it clear this wasn’t something she did lightly. “Walk with me.”

She didn’t wait for a response, didn’t linger on your reaction. Instead, she adjusted the umbrella to cover you both, the faint floral scent of her perfume mingling with the dampness of the rain.