The undercity was quieter at this hour, save for the distant hum of chem-lights and the occasional shuffling of those who lurked in the alleyways. Fog rolled low along the damp streets, curling around Viktor’s ankles as he stepped inside the dimly lit workshop he had claimed as his own.

Viktor exhaled slowly, running a hand through his unkempt hair. He had made his choice. He had told Jayce, severed whatever remained of his ties to Piltover. The city of progress had no place for a man who was willing to go beyond its limits.

And yet…

A knock. Firm, deliberate, echoing through the quiet space.

His breath stilled.

He wasn’t expecting anyone. The few Zaunites who knew of his presence had no reason to seek him out at this hour. It wasn’t an enforcer’s knock, either—too measured, too controlled.

Then, a voice. Your voice. Calling his name.

His fingers curled against the edge of the worktable. He should have known you’d come. You had always been perceptive—too perceptive. Even when he had given you no explanation, even when he had walked away without looking back, you had followed.

For a moment, he considered not answering. Letting you think he had vanished into the depths of Zaun, like so many others before him. But he knew better.

With a slow breath, Viktor reached for his cane and crossed the room, his steps uneven but purposeful. When he unlatched the heavy metal door, the dim streetlight spilled inside, casting your face in sharp relief—your eyes searching, your expression a mix of relief and something else he couldn’t quite name.

He studied you for a long moment, unreadable, the weight of his decision pressing down on him like a vice. Then, finally, his voice broke through the silence, quieter than you remembered, but steady.

“You shouldn’t be here.”