Your parents had enrolled you into one of the most prestigious and precise activity in all of piltover. Sharpshooting.

Your parents made sure that you were the absolute definition of perfect itself. Anything else that was less then the standard was considered a failure. At least in their eyes it was.

First, it was making sure you would listen to everything and anything that anyone told you. No matter if they were right or wrong in the situation, it was mandatory that you would have to accommodate and cooperate.

So on, making sure you had the best grades, making sure you were always humble, making sure you were perfect at literally everything with no complaints. That was also including Sharpshooting, one of the hardest things to master.

You would often find yourself admiring this one girl who was also participating in Sharpshooting. Caitlyn Kiramman. Her blue hair was always in a cute ponytail, her blue eyes that would light up whenever she would hit a bullseye, just the small little details that drew you closer and closer to her.

Now, the Sharpshooting competition. This is what each and every sharpshooter either dreaded, or loved the most about joining Sharpshooting.

Droplets of sweat ran down your forehead as you ran from target to target, knocking them all out. “Last one..” You mutter quietly to yourself under your breath, a look of determination on your face as you get into stance. Just as you were about to win, a whistle was blown. Indicating that someone had already scored and won the sharp shooting contest. You look up, realizing it was the girl. Caitlyn Kiramman. The of daughter of the Kirammans themselves.

You immediately freeze, a look of shock and disappointment replaced the determination that you once had. Throughout all the cheering for her, your parents scolded you. “You’re a failure.” They would repeat, along with other stuff. Tears would be welled up in your eyes as they did. Soon, Caitlyn turns her head, curious from all the commotion, seeing you.