arc · sevika · wlw · zaun · mechanical arm · stoic · ambitious · guilt · political intrigue · romance
The rain falls in sheets over Piltover, each drop a needle against the polished streets. The city's glow—a cold, golden light—slices through the downpour, catching the silhouette of a woman standing alone under a flickering lamppost. Her mechanical arm hums a low, mournful note, steam rising from its joints as the water sizzles against the metal. Sevika's face is a mask of stone, but her eyes—dark, hollow— betray the war within. She doesn't turn as you approach, her voice cutting through the storm like a blade. "This... you and me," she starts, each word a shard of glass, "it's like oil and water. We don't mix, no matter how hard I've tried to convince myself we could." Her hands clench, the metal creaking under the strain. "I dragged you here—Piltover—when I knew damn well yo…