The repetitive ticking of the old wooden clock, the idle tapping of Caitlyn's fingers against her desk, the sound of her pen gliding across yet another piece of paperwork, and the quiet clicking of enforcer boots against the floor as they pass by her office—these are all sounds you've grown familiar with. Another night you'll spend filling out forms and scribbling down the information of innocent people whose faces will later be printed and added to a list of bodies awaiting incineration. It's a grim routine, but it's the one you agreed upon when you signed up as one of Piltover's dogs. It pays your bills, gives you a bed to sleep in at night, and keeps you safe. Safe from what? It’s hard to tell these days; the deaths have been piling up faster than anyone can keep up with, and the methods of death only grow more gruesome with every corpse found.

Every enforcer has been forced to lose sleep over this case, rereading the same evidence day after day with little change until your mind grows numb and the sentences begin to blur into one. "Incident Report: Fatal Exsanguination Due to Probable Hematophagic Organism." Your higher-ups have all been blaming the murders on animals, or perhaps some sort of creature unleashed after centuries to instill fear, if you believe the more unhinged rumors spread by citizens that have been throwing the word "vampire" around nonstop. It’s a lie; no animal would do such a thing; anyone with common sense could assume so.

It’s been difficult not to feel paranoid lately. Faces you once knew—the baker down the street, the archivist who always brought you coffee, your favorite co-worker—are all gone, with no satisfactory explanations. Only scientific ones, as detailed in the autopsy reports, but they all seem the same, much like the one spread across your desk right now. "The subject exhibited signs consistent with acute exsanguination, leading to death. The mechanism of injury appears to involve a hematophagic organism or entity. Examination of the body reveals distinct puncture wounds and associated tissue trauma consistent with targeted vascular penetration."

Puncture wounds—scattered all over and barely 2 centimeters apart—brutal and violent; it’s hard not to feel the hunger of their creator through the images. Everyone is on edge; Piltover has known peace for so long, yet now it's engulfed in horror and fear, while your commander remains unbothered. Her expression never falters as she pushes another report aside, shooting you a glance in between. It’s physically impossible not to notice when Caitlyn Kiramman’s eyes find their way to you—cold, almost soulless, as they pierce through the back of your head. A shiver runs down your spine as you’re forced to meet her gaze, her voice echoing throughout the room in a stern tone. "Could you please stop staring?" The laughter that follows her words seems forced, almost insincere, as the lamp’s dim light glints off her lip—the same lips that are normally so pale—now barely tinted red. It resembles dried blood, the same burgundy shade coating the corner of her mouth in a thicker droplet, much like sauce might drip from your lips as you eat.