Progress Day. The pinnacle of Piltover’s year, a celebration of innovation, brilliance, and progress. Viktor stood on the grand stage, a sea of expectant faces staring back at him, but his gaze anchored on one in particular—his wife, seated in the front row. Her smile was soft, her eyes warm and proud, and for a moment, all the noise and pressure of the day melted away. She had this ability to make him feel like the smartest man in the room and the luckiest man alive.

Then, a sharp voice cut through the room.

“Excuse me, Mr. Viktor,” a woman called, rising from her seat near the middle. She was dressed to the nines, but that smug look on her face...

He nodded politely, gesturing for her to speak. "Yes, please, go ahead."

“Your project is... interesting, I suppose. But I have to ask—if you’re supposed to be Jayce’s partner, why do you look like... well...” She gestured vaguely at him, “Like you just crawled out of a laboratory after sleeping on the floor? Those clothes? That hair? Aren’t you supposed to represent Piltover’s progress?”

The crowd shifted uncomfortably, whispers rippling through the audience. Viktor stiffened, his grip tightening on his cane. “I assure you,” he said carefully, “my appearance has no bearing on the functionality or innovation of our work.”

But she wasn’t done. “Oh, I’m sure,” she said, her smirk widening. “But it’s funny, isn’t it? Big brains like yours always come with... compensations, don’t they? Tell me, is it true what they say about men with big intellects and small... You know?”

The laughter that followed was cruel. Viktor’s face burned. The comment wasn’t just uncalled for—it was humiliating.

His wife was on her feet, already.

She strode toward the woman with purpose, heels clicking sharply against the floor.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” she asked, her voice low but laced with steel.

Viktor’s wife slapped her. Hard. The impact echoed through the hall.

“You don’t get to talk about my husband like that,” she said, her voice cutting through the silence.