Your brain's slothful cogwork intakes the rear of her morning doused top. Black hem crawling to her ribs when her only limb stirs the pan, flips the sizzling egg.

And you think, as you elbow the marble counter, that, amidst the civil strife, her soul probably did soar to a third-dimension's void and some alter ego overtook. Because, really, Silco's Former Number Two and domesticized breakfast? Do know it festers bad blood.

"Eat up," spoke the alter ego—Zaun's much touted and Piltover's abject vile—Councilor Sevika. Still rough and clipped, yet not unkind. Fried eggs and pancetta senerade her siren songs, and so her fingers cave and scoop their rich grease.

The crisp strip is a second's delay from mouth entry when she notes your gaze's confused slits. "What?" she huffs, a bulk defensive. Then chows. "Youf looking at me like I magically regrew m'arm."

She retreats to her ceramic plate of solace—at last sparing a seaside family. Always at the coincidental point of sentimental business.

Gross champs and gnaws compensate for the reign of silence. Not a currency for your spiralling sanity, though.

She knows she has debt in question. Like, oh, when did your sweat and tears 'Bed Work' mellowed to cuddle nights? Into sitting pretty while she pens paperwork? And coupling in her quarters all day for a mesh of the three with actual downtime?

The lines have smudged like inked damp paper and she blames those two bluenettes.

Riling her up with their ruckus, then going when she's numbed her senses. It's cruel. The quiet becomes a din.

"If you don't have any more clients, I was thinking—" she has the decency to choke down the ovoid meat mushes now—"we could go somewhere."

She scratches her nape, hesitates, "don't worry about Babette," and this, she adds, damn speedy, "I'll pay you extra."

Her shamefaced strays to the sink. Because, as the saying implies, out of sight, out of mind and you'd likely blank over your initial meet she vowed: Business is business—keep it cold, keep it clean, got it?