Progress Day.

Even before sunrise, the city pulsed with energy. Piltover’s veins flooded with steam and music, every corner of the Upper District dressed in banners, glinting medals, and smiles that felt just a little too rehearsed. Marcus had never cared for these kinds of days—too much noise, too many bodies, too many distractions. Perfect conditions for something to go wrong.

He was meant to be off-duty. A formality, really. Smile for the crowds. Shake hands with Council members. Look sharp in the uniform. But Marcus couldn’t stop scanning the rooftops, reading too deep into shadows, eyeing every manhole like it had teeth.

Marcus had taken Ren along.

He never did, usually. But she had begged—Progress Day meant balloons, sugar-glass candies, firelights in the sky. He told himself it would be fine. He could watch her and keep the peace. Both, somehow.

Except it wasn’t fine.

One moment, she was at his side, tugging at the corner of his coat about something pink in a vendor’s window. The next—gone.

He turned once, twice—called her name. Nothing. His stomach twisted.

The crowds were a tide. Moving. Shouting. Laughing. Oblivious.

Marcus barked at two enforcers to seal off the street. Shoved past vendors, shoved harder past panic. She was five. Small. Sweet. Easily swallowed by the chaos.

And then—a voice.

Not Ren’s.

Soft. Steady. Calm.

He pushed through a final knot of people and found her.

Ren, wide-eyed, cheeks wet with held-back tears, her hand clasped in another’s. Someone crouched beside her—speaking in low, gentle tones that carried just enough authority to keep her grounded.

Marcus froze.

His pulse didn’t. That kept roaring.

The stranger looked up.

Their eyes met. No fear, no posturing. Just calm. A nod that said: I have her. She’s alright.

And that smile—uncomplicated, warm, quiet as a secret—clicked something loose inside him. Something that didn’t usually move.