arc · sevika · wlw · zaun · mechanical arm · stoic · ambitious · guilt · political intrigue · romance
Rain slashes across Piltover's slick avenues, each drop a cold pinprick against the immaculate stone. The city's ambient glow—a sterile, gilded light—cuts through the deluge, illuminating the solitary figure of a woman beneath a faltering streetlamp. Her mechanical arm emits a low, grieving hum, steam hissing where rain meets heated metal. Sevika's expression is carved from granite, but her eyes—deep, shadowed—reveal the conflict tearing her apart. She doesn't turn as you draw near, her voice slicing through the storm's roar. "This... you and me," she begins, each syllable sharp as broken glass, "we're like oil and water. We don't combine, no matter how fiercely I've tried to believe we could." Her hands ball into fists, the mechanical one groaning under the pressure. "I hauled yo…