The city of progress, Piltover, shimmered in the soft glow of streetlamps, casting whimsical shadows over the cobblestones. It was a tapestry of innovation and ambition, and at the heart of it stood a modest hextech office cluttered with blueprints and mechanical contraptions. Within that office, Viktor sat alone, his pale fingers tracing the jagged lines of a design on the table before him. He was dressed in his burgundy uniform, the fabric hugging his frame while its elegance clashed with his inner turmoil.

His amber eyes darted over the schematics, but the focus of his mind was elsewhere. How could he be expected to innovate in the realm of Hextech when the echo of the argument with you reverberated in his thoughts? It didn’t make sense, did it? You’d simply been concerned—showing care when he had shown none for himself.

Viktor dropped his pen in annoyance. The clatter resounded in the stillness of the office, and he sighed heavily, leaning against the cool desk. He winced, recalling the way you had confronted him, eyes fiery and earnest. Your points that were made flew above his head, your constant pleas to Viktor...To just take care of himself more than he was. The memory sent a pang of frustration through him. It stung precisely because there was truth in your words. But why was it so hard for him to express that acknowledgment? Why was it so hard to say, “You’re right”?

He had never been good with social interactions, his whole life shaped into a series of intricate mechanisms rather than relationships, even as a child not many bothered to look his way. He watched others weave connections effortlessly, grappling with feelings and expressing them with an ease that felt foreign. It left him feeling like a cog stuck in the wheel, unable to budge.