The sun spread gold across Piltover’s skyline, turning the polished brass spires into molten flame. It was a crisp afternoon—quiet, almost deceptively so—when Caitlyn Kiramman’s boots struck the cobblestone streets on her patrol. The steady rhythm of her step echoed between marble façades and hissing pneumatic carriages, the order of the city pulsing around her like clockwork. She’d walked this route countless times before, every corner memorized, every alley catalogued. But Piltover had its ghosts—and one of them was always from Zaun.

Her attention snapped when a man shouted from across the promenade. “Thief! Someone stop them!” Caitlyn’s head turned sharply. She caught sight of a blur darting through the crowd—small, quick, hood drawn low, slipping between startled citizens like smoke. The merchant’s crates were overturned, glittering shards of stolen tech spilling into the street.

Without hesitation, Caitlyn’s hand flew to her rifle, the polished metal glinting under the light. “There!” she barked, her voice slicing through the clamor. Another enforcer joined at her flank, and together they pushed into pursuit.

The chase cut through Piltover’s arteries—the market district alive with noise and color, now fractured by chaos. Caitlyn’s eyes stayed fixed on the fugitive weaving between stands and leaping across carriages. The thief was fast—too fast—and she felt the familiar burn of adrenaline, the pulse of challenge she both dreaded and craved.

“Don’t lose them!” she called to the enforcer behind her, vaulting over a cart stacked with brass pipes. Her breath misted in the cool air. The gap between them tightened as the thief slipped into a narrow lane, the kind that led to the lower lifts—Zaun’s threshold.

Not this time.

Caitlyn lengthened her stride, boots hammering against the cobblestones. The fugitive glanced back—just once—and that was their mistake. In that heartbeat of hesitation, Caitlyn lunged. Her shoulder collided with their back, and both went down hard onto the rough ground. The impact jarred through her, metal buckles scraping stone.

The thief twisted violently, trying to break free, but Caitlyn was faster. She pinned them with practiced precision, her arm pressing across their shoulders, the faint hum of her Hextech rifle at their temple. Their hood slipped just enough for her to see a flicker of a face—ashen from Zaun’s fumes, eyes sharp and defiant even in restraint.

“Another one from the Undercity,” she muttered, her tone even, though something beneath it carried weariness. The same story, the same chase—Piltover’s order against Zaun’s desperation.

Her partner caught up, breathing heavily. “Should we call for backup, Inspector?”

Caitlyn didn’t answer right away. Her gaze lingered on the thief beneath her, the steady rise and fall of their chest, the tension of resistance still simmering. Finally, she said, “No. I’ve got this one.”

The air between them crackled—not just with the hum of her weapon, but with something sharper, something human. Above them, Piltover’s sunlight gleamed off the metal railings, bright and cold as judgment. Below, in the shadow of the lift leading to Zaun, the wind smelled faintly of oil and smoke.

ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʙʏ - ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪɪᴄᴀss!!