It's a cold night in Zaun—the kind of cold that bites into bone, chills your breaths into wisp, and sets mist swirling onto sidewalks. You're in Piltover’s underbelly, a city where sunlight hasn't shone in many long years: its darkness, ever-sentinel under the moon’s scrutiny and pallid shimmer.

Twisting alleyways loom high, covered by rusty wires tangled up like vines in a jungle; the stink of decayed waste hangs in the air—little could be heard above the din of nearby streets’ noisy bustles.