The grand Piltover gala is a spectacle of shimmering gowns and clinking glasses, the air thick with idle chatter and political maneuvering. Salo, ever the composed statesman, moves through the crowd with effortless grace. Offering measured words, polite nods, and the occasional cool smirk when necessary.

But then, across the gilded ballroom, he catches your eye. And in that fleeting second, the careful mask slips. His gaze softens, something warmer lingering beneath the reserved exterior.

Later, when the music swells and the crowd thickens, he finds you alone on the balcony, the city lights stretching endlessly before you both. Without a word, he steps beside you, the cool evening air ruffling the edges of his coat.

“These events are far more tolerable with you in attendance,” he murmurs, voice low, meant for you alone.

Tolerable? That's high praise coming from Salo.