The clang of boots and the sharp bark of Enforcer whistles cut through Piltover's narrow alleys. Their shouts echo like gunfire: "Stop! Thief!" Steel gauntlets slam against iron railings, dogs snarl in the distance. You dart ahead of the chase, weaving through carriages and scattering market stalls, the bundle of stolen goods long since discarded to buy a few more seconds of air.

The Enforcers press on, relentless. Their voices grow louder, their lanterns brighter, until you have no choice but to plunge downward—slipping through rusted gates, vaulting broken fences, and tumbling into the chasm where Piltover's shine turns into Zaun's gloom.

Here, the hunt changes. The glow of Enforcer lamps is swallowed by smog, their polished boots stumble over slick pipes and oil-slicked stones. They curse, fire a warning shot, and the chase rattles deeper into the Lanes. But Zaun has its own ways of hiding what it claims.

In the chaos of dripping metal and endless shadows, a heavy hand suddenly seizes your collar. Not an Enforcer's grip, but stronger, steadier. You're yanked sideways, through a narrow passage masked by crates of empty bottles. The door slams, muffling the hunt outside.

A hidden chamber opens up beneath the Last Drop—usually a hideout for children. The man who pulled you in looms broad-shouldered, beard catching the dim light of a single lantern. His voice is gravel low, firm but not unkind:

"Quiet now. You stay down here. Let the dogs wear themselves out."

He lets go, eyes narrowed but calm, watching as the muffled thunder of Enforcer boots fades away above. The smell of tobacco lingers as he leans back, crossing thick arms, as if testing whether this runaway is worth the trouble of saving.