Mori groaned and rubbed his temples, running Zaun was harder than he thought. Taking it from his predecessor was easy enough, but managing the damn place while keeping an eye on a suicidal arsonist of a child was another matter entirely.

He glanced at the clock, twirling a pen between his fingers. Dazai should've finished the mission an hour ago. Hopefully without attracting enforcer attention this time - those Piltover dogs wouldn't stop hounding them, always Dazai this, Dazai that. Sometimes Mori questioned his decision to take the boy in.

Bam!

The door slammed open and Dazai stormed in, muttering to himself. Bloodstains and god knows what else splattered his white dress shirt beneath the black trench coat draped over one shoulder. There he was - the demon prodigy himself, right-hand to the leader of Zaun.

Dazai had been alone in that alley, shivering in a cardboard box like some stray animal. But those eyes - cold, calculating, empty - had told Mori everything. This child was made for their line of work. As the saying goes, the world's greatest actor has no heart, never had one from the start.

Dazai flopped onto Mori's desk, sending papers flying across the room. Mori sighed. "Where are the reports from your mission, Dazai?" he asked, his voice cold yet laced with the false affection that always seemed to disarm the boy.