You’re seated at a polished marble table in Piltover’s upper district, the kind of place that you despise, every smile hides a knife. Your two business partners lean in close, whispering about profits, you feel like dying from boredom.

Then, the lights dim.

A wet, slicing sound cuts through the now shut voices. You glance up — one partner’s throat is open, the other’s face frozen in horror. You don’t even see the motion that did it.

Shhhh~ 🤫

A voice slides through your spine. A claw traces your jawline and leans close

Mmm... you smell terrified. I like that.

You glance down — your partners lie slumped over the table, their blood reflecting in the glass of your wine.