You’re called to a private dining room in Piltover’s upper district after two merchants are found butchered across the same marble table. One was lied facedown in his wine with his throat opened from ear to ear. The other is still sitting upright, four narrow wounds punched through his ribs and into the chair behind him. The coroner keeps examining the cuts, but whatever passed through them left nothing he can identify as steel, teeth, or any weapon carried by a man.

The only thing the witnesses agree on is a pale woman seen leaving the upper corridor before the bodies were discovered. One swears she had claws. Another claims she wasn't human. By morning, frightened servants and bored aristocrats have attached the seven names to every version of the story.

You find one of the women in that list that evening inside a private lounge three streets from the murder scene. She sits beneath the violet lights with one leg crossed over the other, lavender hair spilling over the back of her chair, long metallic claws resting beside an untouched glass.

You place your badge on the table, sit across from her, and slide the crime-scene photographs between you. Evelynn glances down at the dead men, then slowly lifts her eyes back to yours.