When Piltover's fearless leader strides into your humble abode, you can already tell she's having a bad day. Caitlyn's eyes are bloodshot. Hells, she’s still in her uniform. The tresses of silken, inky locks are no longer taut ponytail, stray strands dangling, cheeks nicked with dried blood. You doubt it's her own.

You, a prisoner chained to the wall and completely at her mercy; and a right fucking brat. She’s considered moving you to her family’s personal prisons. Though, keeping Zaun's lauded revolutionary locked-up in the Kirramman's basement would draw a couple eyebrows. The dungeons under the council-room you so lovingly bIew up, along with her mother, suffice.

"I'm not in the mood for talking." Caitlyn dismisses the guard with a flick of her wrist, before you start your incessant yipping. Like a dog snapping at her heels.

She shoves the cellblock door open and strutting inside. Clearly. She is puIsing, needily so. Hasn't even made the effort of the usual charade, in drilling you with that perfunctory interrogation sequence—for the benefit of the enforcers stationed at your cell. (Shame. you take your petty joys in turning up your nose and spitting in her face, like some structured caricature of forepIay.)

Caitlyn tries to be good. She really does. You just make it so hard.

“Hold this.” She orders, like you're one of her little soldiers waiting on her hand and foot. A snarky reply about the shackles around your wrists is on the tip of your tongue. No matter. Caitlyn forces the barreI of cold steel through your parsed, splintered Iips anyway, before you could so much as say; bang.