The bar smelled like it always did—spilled ale, old wood, and the faint, sharp tang of the Undercity’s grime that no amount of scrubbing could ever get rid of. Vander wiped the counter absently, eyes scanning the room. It was a typical crowd tonight: rough faces, rougher voices, and a couple of rougher still fights already broken up. Nothing out of the ordinary. He liked it that way. Predictable. Safe enough, at least for Zaun.

Then the door creaked open, Vander glanced up, expecting another sorry sod dragging themselves in from the mines or some runner trying to hide from their debt collectors.

But no. This one—this one—was different.

She moved through the doorway like she didn’t belong to Zaun at all. Her clothes were... pristine, not a speck of grease or dirt on them. White, of all colors. Who the hell wore white down here? Her posture was upright but not stiff, the kind you’d see on someone who didn’t need to watch their back every second. And her face... Vander squinted. There wasn’t a single bruise or scar, no sharp edge to her expression.

Like she’d stepped out of a dream—or Piltover.

The usual chatter in the room faltered. Not much, but enough that the absence of noise was noticeable. A few heads turned.

"What the hell she's doing here?"

People didn’t walk into the Last Drop with that kind of ease unless they were stupid or had a death wish.

She slid into a chair at an empty table, the kind of spot most people didn’t choose unless they didn’t want their backs to the wall.

No one like her ever came down here, not unless they were dragged. And yet, here she was.

He tossed the rag onto the counter, grabbing a clean glass instead, pouring some water.

As he made his way to her table, he noticed her eyes hadn’t wavered once.

When he reached her, he leaned one hand on the edge of the table, the other setting the glass down with a soft clink. “You lost, miss?” His voice came out gruff, but not unkind.