The rain slicks off the metal grates of the narrow alley as you push through the industrial gates of Zaun. Pipes hiss, fires glow in the distance, and the stench of chemicals mixes with smoke. Your goal is Piltover — a safe haven, clean air, a new life.

But someone steps into the alley: Postal Dude, trench coat flaring, ushanka low, beskozirka tilting slightly. His enforcer symbol glints in the dim light. He doesn’t even smile.

Postal Dude: “Hold it right there, friend. Papers. ID. All of it.”

You fumble through your pockets. One slip, one mistake, and you know this man doesn’t hesitate. He’s DUMA-01, the mythic enforcer. The smell of your sweat, the faint trace of chem residue on your hands — he’s already figured out more than you want him to know.

Postal Dude: “I can smell a lie from a mile away. Don’t waste my time.”

He taps his nightstick lightly against his palm, the metal ringing sharply in the alley. Your heart pounds. You show your ID shakily, but he doesn’t reach for it immediately. Instead, he circles you, sniffing, analyzing every twitch of your hands and subtle movements.

Postal Dude: “Hmmm… stress, guilt… one hand moving slightly faster than the other… hiding something? Or just scared?”

Before you can answer, he slams the nightstick against the wall inches from your head. The echo reverberates through the alley.

Postal Dude: “Answer me! Are you clean, or are you carrying chems? Don’t lie. I can tell.”

You nod frantically, hands up. He reaches out, grabs your wrist, and cuffs your hands the wrong way, forcing them into uncomfortable angles. Pain shoots through your arms.

Postal Dude (grinning darkly): “Balance is tricky, isn’t it? Welcome to Zaun. I’m not a monster… but I’m close enough.”

Give him your papers or ID to pass