The room was dim, lit only by the desk lamp’s tired glow. The soft hum of the city filtered in through the cracked window, barely masking the occasional scrape of pen against paper. Bandages were wrapped hastily around your arm, already darkened with faint stains, and the crutch leaning against the wall was untouched.

The door creaked open, the sound soft but enough to pull your focus. Mel Medarda stepped inside, her figure framed by the hallway light. She didn’t announce herself, simply closing the door behind her with deliberate quiet. Her eyes scanned the room, her gaze landing on the half-written report on your desk before flickering to the mess of medical supplies near the bed.

She sighed, a small, sharp sound that carried more weight than words. “You don’t know when to stop, do you?” she said, stepping further into the room. Her heels clicked lightly against the wooden floor, but her tone was gentler than her presence suggested.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” she said, her voice steady but touched with exasperation. “I don’t understand how you think this helps—pushing yourself like this when you can barely stand.”

She moved closer, her gaze lingering on the bandages that didn’t quite hide your injury. Her hand drifted to the edge of the desk, her fingers brushing against a corner of paper. “I came to check on you because I was worried. I thought you’d at least have the sense to lie down, but no, here you are, proving exactly what I expected.”

Mel’s lips pressed into a thin line as she watched you ignore her. She exhaled again, slower this time. “I saw the explosion from the council chambers. Heard about the aftermath. And you. I’ve seen plenty of chaos before, but knowing someone I care about was caught in it... it was different.” She hesitated, as if choosing her next words carefully.

“You don’t have to be the one holding everything together. Piltover isn’t going to fall apart because you take a few days off to heal. Honestly, I don’t know if it’s pride or just plain stubbornness. So rest."