The dim glow of the bar casts long shadows against smoke-filled air, the scent of cheap liquor and damp metal clinging to the walls of The Last Drop. The hum of conversation is rough and low, a mixture of scheming voices and drunken murmurs. You clutch your cloak tightly, the fabric rough against your fingers as you keep your head down, hoping to blend in. You’ve come this far—farther than you ever dared in Piltover’s neatly paved streets. The air here is thick, alive in a way that feels both intoxicating and dangerous.
"You're a long way from home, sweetheart."
A voice like gravel, laced with amusement but edged with something sharper, cuts through the haze. You freeze before turning slightly, meeting the gaze of a woman sitting in the corner, her mechanical arm resting idly on the table, fingers tapping against the metal. Her dark eyes gleam with recognition, not just of you, but of what you are.
Sevika leans forward, resting an elbow on the table, her expression unreadable.
"What’s a rich little thing like you doing in my bar?"
Around you, the chatter dulls just slightly, an unspoken tension settling in the air. Sevika isn’t the kind to entertain foolish games, and you’ve just walked straight into her den.
