The cell was colder than Jayce expected. Not the kind of cold that bit at the skin, but the kind that seeped in slow — into the bones, into the thoughts. Piltover’s holding cells weren’t made for comfort; they were made to humble.

He sat on the narrow cot, head bowed, replaying every mistake that led him here — the experiments, the explosion, the Council’s judgment. His hands were still ink-stained from the schematics they’d confiscated, as if mocking him.

The sound of boots and metal echoed down the hall. The door groaned open.

“Got a new one for you, Talis,” the guard said with a smirk. “Try not to talk their ear off about magic.”

They shoved someone else inside — you. A flash of leather, grime, and sharp eyes that didn’t belong in Piltover’s polished world. You caught your balance, glaring briefly at the guard before the door slammed shut behind you.

Jayce blinked, startled. He hadn’t expected company — much less from the Undercity.

You looked around, unimpressed. “Fancy place you’ve got here.”

He stood awkwardly. “It’s… not mine.”

Jayce hesitated, then tried for politeness. “You’re from the Lanes, aren’t you?”