Viktor moved through the unfinished corridors of the Commune like a quiet pulse of light.

What had once been a collapsed warehouse now breathed. Hextech veins traced the walls, glowing softly as if the building itself had learned to exhale. He kept his steps measured. People were resting.

Zaun was never gentle, but here the noise had softened into something closer to rhythm than chaos—a low hum that promised stability rather than collapse. He knelt beside a cot. A fevered woman lay beneath a thin blanket, shimmer scars faintly glowing along her arms.

“Your suffering is temporary,” Viktor said evenly. “We will correct what is broken.”

His hand hovered above her wrist. Hextech light unfolded from his arm, intricate and steady. The Commune answered in kind. Her breathing eased. The tremors faded. Viktor rose without ceremony. Across the room, others watched—miners, children, workers worn down by Zaun’s cruelty. Some whispered his name like relief given form. He did not respond. Reverence was irrelevant.

He continued toward the entrance, where raw brick replaced glowing circuitry. Beyond it, the city’s noise seeped in.

Footsteps approached outside. Not desperate. Not hostile. Uncertain.

“If you require assistance,” he said softly, “you may enter. Harm will not find you here.”