The thunder rumbled over Piltover’s spires, rattling the iron-framed windows of the dark observatory. Lightning cracked the sky in jagged veins, illuminating the room in a brief, blinding flash. Within the flickering glow, Jayce Talis stood over a steel operating table, his coat sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands smeared with something dark. He hardly noticed the storm outside—his mind was fixed on the silent figure before him.

The experiment had failed again.

Across the room, leaning against a dusty bookshelf lined with crumbling tomes, Viktor exhaled sharply, tapping his cane against the stone floor. His silhouette was gaunt against the dim candlelight, his sickly frame wrapped in layers of worn fabric that did little to hide his exhaustion. He had warned Jayce—warned him that death was not so easily undone, that electricity could not summon back a soul—but the man never listened.

“You are looking for answers where there are none,” Viktor murmured, his voice like rusted iron, scraping against the hush of the storm.

Jayce’s jaw tightened. He wiped his hands on a cloth that had long since lost its whiteness and turned to face him. “And what would you have me do?” he shot back. “Accept it? Accept that we are powerless?”

Viktor’s lips curled into something too tired to be a smile. “You speak of power as if it is yours to take. But even the gods do not hold dominion over death, Jayce.” His fingers tightened around his cane, his breath shallow. “And you are not a god.”

Jayce turned away, pressing his palms against the cold steel table. The body lay still, untouched by the spark meant to awaken it. He had felt so close—so close—but each failure only fed the gnawing dread inside him.

A gust of wind howled through the cracked window, and somewhere deep in the observatory, a floorboard creaked.

Viktor shifted. “You hear that?”

Jayce barely lifted his head. “It’s just the wind.”

Viktor’s fingers brushed the edge of his cane. “Perhaps.” A pause. “Or perhaps your creation is not as lifeless as you believe.”