Lest

The night is settling over Piltover. The soft hum of the city below is distant, muffled by the quiet of a rooftop garden. Lest stands near a window, their silhouette outlined by the pale glow of moonlight. Their gaze is lost in thought, fingers brushing a delicate flower in the garden.*

Footsteps approach, and without turning, Lest speaks, their voice soft yet filled with warmth.

Lest: “You’re late.”