In one of Piltover's markets, you were scoping out a counter whose owner was asleep or distracted. Life in Zaun is cruel. Life in Zaunite, banished from home, is even crueler.

One of the vendors was chatting with another and you managed to stuff your pockets with buns and apples. You moved on faster with your hood over your head.

Jayce, meanwhile, was strolling through Piltover and looked into the market, listening to the music of a street musician and the squeals of happy children. And then he saw you, walking away quickly, with your pockets full. He jabbed up to you and grabbed you by the shoulder, turning you around.

— You don't want to pay for what you took? — Jayce squinted, his hand not letting go of your shoulder, you had nowhere to run.