Morning in Piltover begins far more quietly than in Zaun. Kaitlin walked briskly down the chalk-white corridors of Whitehall—Enforcer Headquarters. In her hand, a summons bearing the red wax seal of the Internal Affairs Committee. A single sheet of paper, heavy in her chest. (*It's just a summons. Don't let it rattle you.*) She told herself that. Her direct superior was simply going to reprimand her for all the solo operations. That was what she believed. She pushed open the heavy door to the committee room. It should have been empty. "[gentle]Good morning, Lady Kaitlin." The person seated beyond the long table was not her superior. Silver hair slicked back with precision, grey eyes narrowed in a smile—Deacon Murdock. Her protective detail, an Enforcer Adjutant. On the table, thick files were arranged with meticulous care. Every cover bore Kaitlin's name, along with handwritten dates and times. "[cold]…Why are you here?" Kaitlin stopped in her tracks. "[gentle]I am your protective detail, after all." Deacon rose gracefully and pulled out a chair for Kaitlin. The gesture was as if he were about to commence an elegant tea party. But his eyes were utterly devoid of warmth. "[whispers]The summons was issued at my recommendation to the higher-ups." "…What?" "[gentle]It's for your protection. You've been conducting repeated solo operations in the Zaun sector recently. Suspicious activity. If someone else were to report it first, you wouldn't get off lightly." He picked up one of the files and flipped through its pages. "[cold]Everything is here. A record of all your solo operations. Dates, times, locations… every last one, meticulously documented." Kaitlin's throat went instantly dry. The pages of the file contained the day she visited the Last Drop, the time she vanished into a cheap inn on Clockwork Alley, even the hour she descended into Zaun—all of it, recorded with precision. Every character was aligned as if measured with a ruler. "[angry]How long have you been conducting this level of surveillance?" "[gentle]It's not surveillance. It's protection." Deacon spoke calmly, but with a tone that brooked no argument. "[cold]I am your protective detail. Where you go and whom you meet—I know it all. That's only natural, isn't it?" Just then, a voice came from the corridor. "Officer Murdock, are those records all handwritten?" A junior enforcer was peering at the files. "[gentle]Of course." "Wow, that's incredible. Such a massive volume… why not just print them out?" "[whispers]When it comes to Lady Kaitlin, I prefer not to entrust the task to printed type." Kaitlin heard that exchange from just outside the committee room door. Goosebumps crawled up her arms. *Prefer not to entrust it to printed type?* It was as if he derived a perverse pleasure from etching every single detail of her movements into the record with his own hand— She froze for an instant. (*This is not a funny joke.*) Every instinct in her body was screaming a warning. But if she showed her unease here, she would be dancing in the palm of his hand. "[cold]…So. What do you want from me?" She forced the words out coldly and entered the room. Deacon's smile never wavered as he slid a single document across the table. "[gentle]If you sign this, all your solo operations in the Zaun sector will be processed as 'emergency investigations.' I will report it as such to the upper echelons." It was a falsified emergency investigation report. If she signed, her actions would be placed under his control. If she refused, the records would go straight to the higher-ups immediately. Kaitlin picked up the document. Her eyes scanned it, line by line. (*Silas's name… isn't here.*) The document only stated "suspicion of unofficial contact in the Zaun sector," with no individual names mentioned at all. He hadn't yet grasped Silas's existence—not yet. She picked up the pen. Her hand threatened to tremble, but she forced it steady through sheer will. "[cold]Fine. If I sign, you withhold the report. That's the deal, isn't it?" "[gentle]A deal? I simply wish to protect you." His voice was soft. Almost as if whispering to a lover. But his eyes were those of a predator toying with its prey. Kaitlin signed. Had he seen through the tremor in her hand? "[gentle]Now then, please spend the day working here in this room. I will stand guard outside the door." Protection. Which meant, in effect, house arrest. Left alone in the room, Kaitlin looked down from the window. Far below, Zaun lay submerged in the grey haze. (*Silas… where are you right now?*) Last night, she had fallen asleep with his hand still resting over hers. That warmth felt impossibly distant now. The hands of the men from the upper echelons were soft, and always carried a hint of falsehood. But Silas's hand was different. Bony, hard, covered in scars—and yet, for some reason, she hadn't wanted to let go. (*How did a man with hands like that ever end up a criminal?*) She let out a small sigh and traced her fingertip through the dust on the windowsill. --- Around the same time. Morning on Clockwork Alley, the grey haze still thick. Silas rose from the bed in the cheap inn, breathing in air that still carried the lingering scent of last night's alcohol. On the desk, a single folded scrap of paper. It seemed to have been slipped under the door at some point without him noticing. *'I want to hand over evidence regarding the enforcer informant. Come alone. Location: the abandoned warehouse. Before dawn.'* No sender's name. (*A tip-off from an informant?*) Silas turned the paper over. Just cheap stock. The handwriting was oddly meticulous, the characters aligned as neatly as if drawn with a ruler. (*Probably got cold feet.*) An anonymous informant, too scared to hand it over in person—common enough in Zaun. He thought little of it, threw on his jacket, and walked out the door. The abandoned warehouse was three turns down a side street off Clockwork Alley. Once a materials depot for Seifert Industries, no one had come near it since Ash Wednesday. He pushed the door. The rusted hinges let out a shriek. Inside, it was dim. Faint morning light fell in streaks through the holes in the ceiling. Within that light, five shadows moved. "[sarcastic]…You've gotta be kidding me." Front, back, left, right. Completely surrounded. The entrance was already blocked off, too. The man in front stepped forward, an iron pipe resting on his shoulder. Kozlov's private thugs. Parts of his body had been mechanized with crude alchemy, his twisted iron hand grinding as it moved. "[cold]Deacon Murdock. Name ring a bell? From the big man upstairs." The man grinned. "[sarcastic]Says we're supposed to teach you some manners. Special request." (*Deacon Murdock.*) Silas turned the name over in his head. He didn't know it. But—Kozlov and an enforcer from the upper echelons were connected. That alone was enough. "[angry]Five on one. Quite the welcome party." The moment he took his stance. An iron pipe came swinging down from behind. *Thud.* A dull impact against his shoulder blade. Before he could even register the pain, the next blow came. A fist to the gut. It sank in so deep he could feel the shape of the fingers even through the leather glove. Something acidic surged up from the pit of his stomach. "Guh—" He was slammed against the wall. The cold of the concrete shot through his back. A kick flew in. His ribs made a sickening *crack*. (*That one's—broken.*) A part of him, in the corner of his mind, assessed the damage with cold clarity. But his body no longer obeyed him. A second rib broke under the next kick. He couldn't breathe. His mouth filled with the taste of iron. Still, he got up. Beaten down, slammed against the wall, he got up again. (*I can't afford to stay down.*) For some reason, the face that surfaced in his mind was Kaitlin's. The words she had said that night—"I don't believe I held a criminal." He had never met a woman who said things like that. (*What's she doing right now?*) Another kick. His knee buckled, and he collapsed to the floor. A pool of blood spread wider. His own blood. His vision was starting to darken when— "[sarcastic]Man, the instructions for this job were so damn detailed it's creepy." "[laughing]Well, that Deacon Murdock guy pays good, at least." "[sarcastic]Still, that level of obsession is messed up. What was that woman's name again—" The conversation grew distant. But that name alone seared itself deep into Silas's fading consciousness. —Deacon Murdock. (*I'll remember you.*) The sound of their footsteps retreating. Silence. --- His consciousness sank into a deep darkness. At its edge, what Silas saw was the scene from the inn last night. The dim room, the thin blanket, and—the pale fingers resting over his hand. (*Kaitlin…*) They were the hands of someone from the upper echelons, yet they had been strangely strong, and trembling just slightly. (*With hands like that, and she's trying to carry everything all by herself.*) In his hazy consciousness, he cursed her. Whether it was worry or anger, he couldn't even tell himself. Just—he had to tell that woman. Kaitlin. He had to let her know. That a man named Deacon was scheming something. But his body wouldn't move. His broken ribs must have been pressing on his organs; his breathing was shallow. His fingertips could barely scrape at the dust on the floor. Then. *Rasp.* A rough sensation licked his cheek. He moved only his eyes. A stray augmented hound—a chem-hound—was lapping the blood from his face with a metallic tongue. "…Stop." A voice that wasn't a voice. But that stimulus was just enough to keep him tethered to consciousness. The morning light streamed thinly through the holes in the warehouse roof. Dust danced and glittered in the beams. (*It's not over yet.*) With bloodied fingers, he clawed at the dust on the floor. As if clinging to something. --- That same afternoon. Piltover. An annex of Whitehall. Deacon Murdock knocked on the door of a Senior Enforcer's office. "[gentle]Excuse me." In his hand, a new file. Inside: fabricated eyewitness testimony that Kaitlin Fails had made multiple contacts with a specific man in Zaun, a detailed surveillance log of her time spent there, and documentation identifying that man as a former gangster of Kozlov's crew. All of it, crafted from scratch by Deacon. "[serious]This is… we can formally accept this as grounds for an internal collusion investigation." The Senior Enforcer's voice was grave. The expression vanished from Deacon's face. Only his grey eyes gleamed, as if drinking something in. "[gentle]Thank you very much." He bowed deeply and left the room. He walked down the corridor. After confirming no one was around, he stopped. From his breast pocket, he took out a small cloth bundle. A blue hair clasp—one that Kaitlin had once thrown in the trash. He traced it gently with his fingertip. "[whispers]Now all the unnecessary things will disappear. She will be mine alone." The smile that played on his lips was so faint it dissolved into the whitewash of the walls, unseen by anyone. It was the signal of a madness beginning. --- Zaun, once more. The abandoned warehouse. Silas's consciousness was still submerged in darkness. But somewhere in his heart, an ember smoldered. —Deacon Murdock. That name, like a thorn refusing to be forgotten, glowed in the depths of his awareness. (*I'll remember you. I swear, I'll—*) The rest of his thought quietly cut off. Dusk was approaching. The light from the upper city, swallowed by the grey haze, stained the warehouse floor like a soiled sunset. Silas lay sunken in a pool of blood, only his fingers faintly scraping at the floor. As if he were still fighting.