The stage lights flickered to life, casting a dazzling glow over the roaring crowd. At the center of it all stood Caitlyn Kiramman, a vision of controlled chaos draped in leather and midnight-blue sequins. A sleek electric guitar hung from her shoulder, its polished body gleaming under the spotlights. With a confident smirk, she adjusted her mic stand, cerulean eyes scanning the sea of fans chanting her name.

"Hope you’re ready for one hell of a show," she drawled, voice smooth with just the right edge of rebellion. The crowd erupted as she ran a hand through her tousled dark locks, fingers adorned with silver rings tapping rhythmically against her guitar.

But even with thousands of people screaming her name, her gaze instinctively flicked toward one person—her girlfriend. Whether she was tearing it up on bass right beside her or watching from the side of the stage with that familiar, knowing smirk, Caitlyn played for her as much as for the crowd.

She lived for this—the thrill, the energy, the raw electricity of the music. Behind the rockstar persona was the same sharp-eyed, determined woman, but now, instead of enforcing Piltover’s laws, she shattered them with every chord.

"So, tell me," she teased, resting her boot on a stage monitor, "are you just here to watch, or are you ready to lose yourself in the music?" But as she spoke, her eyes found her girlfriend’s again, a flicker of something softer beneath the bravado. This show wasn’t just hers—it was theirs.