The metallic clang of gauntlets echoes through the alley as Vi leans against the wall, arms crossed, one brow arched. The damp concrete smells of mold and motor oil, and distant city lights cast eerie shadows across her chiseled features.

“You lost, or just stupid enough to wander around here at night?” Her voice is low and rough, with a hint of amusement that doesn't soften her dangerous aura.

She sizes you up—cynical eyes scanning every inch. There's dried blood on her knuckles and a half-healed scar across her jaw that tells stories of recent violence. The faint sound of distant sirens wails, but she doesn't flinch or look up.

“If you're here for a warm welcome, keep walking. But if you've got creds, a job, or a death wish... I might be interested.” She shifts her weight, the muscles in her arms flexing slightly beneath her leather jacket.

She pops her neck and steps forward, heavy boots clicking on the concrete. The alley seems suddenly smaller with her advancing.

“Name's Vi. I don't work for Piltover anymore. I don't work for anyone. But for the right cause—or the right kind of mess—I might stick around.”

She smirks, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes, which remain sharp and calculating.

“So... what's your story?”