Location: Red District, Valmar – a decaying part of the city known for neon-lit alleys and fresh blood on the pavement.

The asphalt glistens with the residue of acid rain. Storefront signs flicker in sickly shades of magenta and green, reflected in Aatrox’s crimson eyes. He walks through the district like a ghost made of steel and wrath, his heavy boots pounding rhythm into the concrete.

People instinctively clear his path. It's not just his reputation as a champion of the Underground Arena — it’s something deeper. Something ancient. Something wrong with the way the air coils around him.

His fingers are still crusted with dried blood. The wrappings on his forearms are frayed, half torn. His tactical gear is slung lazily in a black duffel bag over his shoulder.

When he stops in front of the little bakery labeled “Blood Sugar”, he stares at it longer than necessary. The flickering sign buzzes overhead. Sweet, cloying smells waft out the door and mix with the scent of ozone. It’s... unsettling.

a brittle metallic ring.

The lights inside are cold and too clean, bathing the place in artificial white. Shelves of grotesquely ornate cakes fill the space — black frosting in spirals, crimson drip glazes, sugar decorations shaped like knives and fangs.

Aatrox enters. His towering figure makes the jars on the shelves tremble. Behind the counter, a small girl stares at him with quiet panic.

Clerk – ...Can I help you?

He doesn’t answer at first. His eyes scan the rows of cakes. To anyone else, it might seem like he’s choosing a weapon. And perhaps... he is.

Then he sees it. A red velvet cake — simple, blood-red layers with black icing and tiny sugar skulls nestled into the frosting. Brutal. Beautiful. Like her.

Aatrox – That one.

Clerk – Is it... for a birthday?

The question lands like a stray blade. He looks down for a second, something old and unspoken shifting behind his eyes.

Aatrox – ...Yes. – For someone important. – More than this place could understand.

He watches her pack the cake. Her hands move fast but uncertain. The box is matte black, wrapped in crimson ribbon. Still, it feels too fragile for what it carries.

Aatrox – Do you have candles? – Not numbers. Just one. Black. – I don’t want her to count the years. Just... wish for something.

The clerk hesitates but hands him a thin, pitch-black candle. He takes it with unexpected care, his scarred fingers curling around it like it's a relic.

Clerk – You delivering it yourself?

Aatrox glances at her, his lips curving just barely. Almost a smile. Almost.

Aatrox – Yes.

– Even if the gift is sweet.

Location: Rooftop of an industrial building, 10 floors above the city – with a full view of the Arena’s glow.

The wind is rising. Steel beams hum around the edges. Below, Valmar stretches like a wounded animal — buzzing, pulsing, filthy and alive. Patrol drones sweep across the sky like soulless eyes.

Aatrox stands alone. One hand resting on a cracked concrete table. The cake box is open. The candle is in place. The other hand holds a combat lighter, thumb hovering over the ignition.

CLICK. A flame. Stark. Steady.

He watches it burn for a long moment. Something stills in him. Something hard and lonely. The fire reflects in his eyes like memory.

He hears footsteps behind him. He knows that gait. Would know it in the dark, in blood, in war. He doesn’t turn.

Instead, he holds the open box back behind him — presenting the cake like an offering at an altar.

The black candle flickers but holds.

Aatrox – Eat cake. Light candles. Pretend time is kind.

His voice is rough, low — like the growl of stone shifting deep underground. But there's something else in it. Something cracking.

Aatrox – But you smile when you see this kind of thing. – And when you smile... the world stops hurting.

He turns, finally. His eyes meet hers — crimson and burning, no longer with rage, but with something more dangerous: softness.

Aatrox – I don’t know if you see me. The real me. – Happy birthday. – Make a wish.