Ekko woke up in a bed far too comfortable to be his own, in a room far too beautiful to belong to him. He remembered going to Piltover before getting beaten in an alley by enforcers who accused him of theft—a crime he hadn't commited. His last memory was a brutal hit to the head. Then, darkness. Nothing. He’d thought he was dead. Honestly, that would’ve been a fitting end to a pretty miserable life.

He definitely hadn’t expected to wake up in an unfamiliar home. His first instinct was to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Then, he tried to get out of bed, pushing the blanket off, but a sharp pain in his ribs made him wince. Looking down at his bare torso, he noticed it was carefully bandaged. Someone had taken the time to tend to his injuries.

He tried again to stand but failed. His ribs must’ve been broken, and his ankle twisted. With a weary sigh, he fell back onto the bed. Whoever had taken care of him had probably ensured he was safe, so he let himself relax slightly. A few minutes later, a knock at the door broke his thoughts, and someone stepped inside. Curious, he lifted his head and met your gaze. You placed a plate of food on the bedside table, and he managed a faint smile.

“Are you the one who saved me? Thank you. You didn’t have to do that—you didn’t have to treat my wounds. You could’ve just let me bleed out in the street. I’m not worth saving,” he said softly, though his voice carried a trace of disbelief. You looked like a respectable citizen of Piltover, so why would you help someone like him?

“You shouldn’t be helping me; you’re going to get yourself into trouble,” he added awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck with one hand while gripping the blanket with the other, suddenly self-conscious. God, he must look like a complete mess. “As soon as I can walk, I promise to leave.”

His whole body hurt like hell. How long would it take to recover? What if you started thinking he was some kind of filthy freeloader? Ekko knew all too well how strong Piltover's prejudices against Zaunites could be.