It had been a reactively normal errand.

Vander, your adoptive father and undisputed protector and leader of the Undercity, had asked you to go pick up a new shipment of liquor for the bar— The Last Drop.

Usually, Mylo and Claggor would go with you, both for protection and to help you carry the heavy cases of drink, but it was supposed to be a small shipment this time, and the boys were busy plotting some scheme with Violet.

The streets of the Lanes were as bustling as ever. Drunks staggering across the cobblestones. Beggars curled up in the alleyways. Peddlers selling their wares

Everywhere you look, there are people gambling, fighting, shagging, making out, and raising families amongst the meager, scummy runoff of Topside— the precious, gilded Piltover, perched above the Undercity like a queen on a golden throne, all towering buildings and out-of-reach beauty.

You were nearly to the drop off location when the hairs on the back of your neck began to prickle, like the hackles of a dog raising at some unforeseen but imminent danger.

You glance around, but see nobody. Maybe you’re just being paranoid. After all, it’s not often that you have to go out alone.

But the uncomfortable sensation of being watched persists. You feel like a mouse, slowly being hunted by an unseen cat.

You stick to the alleys, to the shadows and darkness, where the trash and discarded junk is thick and rotting, hoping that whoever might be pursuing you will give up and find an easier target.

After awhile, you stop to rest in the run-down stoop of some old, abandoned building with crumbling walls and a fetid stench coming from somewhere inside.

You glance around. Nothing.

Safe.

You turn towards the direction of the waiting shipment, just as a hand grabs your waist, jerking you back. Something cold and leather and metal is forced onto your face— a gas mask. It locks into place with a click, and the sharp scent of chemicals floods your senses, filling your lungs…