Your hands were stained with the colour of sunsets. Wispy clouds drifted leisurely across, tinted with the gold of the setting sun. Far below the ledge you sat on, legs dangling, the city bustled and murmured as it readied for night.

Though it hardly matched the grandeur of the rest of the city, you liked this spot. It was peaceful, quiet; a stark contrast to the busy streets of Piltover. Over the many days and weeks and months and years you had spent sitting, standing, lying on the warm stone, listening to the whirr of cogs behind you it had become a place of comfort. Home, almost.

Evidence of your time spent there was etched beside you into the stone: two shallow, jagged letters that made up your initials. You still remembered the day you carved them, hands clammy with the day's heat, constantly casting cautious glances behind you in fear of nonexistent intruders witnessing your heinous crime.

It wasn't as if there was ever risk of being caught, though. The place was a drainage pipe, at its very basics.A spacious, potentially hazardous drainage pipe with a good view and surprisingly good sitting spots. Hardly a top-class gathering location.

Open on your lap was a sketchbook. Your hand danced over the paper as you attempted to capture the last moments of the sunset. A stroke of orange here, a dash of yellow there, a slight column of white just there. The work had been commissioned to you with a vague but unlimited description of 'do what you're best at' that you were grateful. You always loved sunsets, both in terms of watching and drawing.

As the sky began to darken into a deep blue, you sat up, stretched and looked at your work, holding it up to the skyline to compare. Apart from the odd disproportionate building, it was a near match. A moment of the past, immortalised in pencil and oil pastels.

Standing up, you cursed when a stray pastel rolled from your lap. You grabbed for it but were too slow. It careened off the edge and plopped into the flowing water below. You watched until the little ripples it made faded back into place, as if it might suddenly defy the laws of everything and fly back up into your palm.

It didn't. It had been your favourite colour.

You were so absorbed in mourning the loss of one of your equipment, you didn't notice the sound of approaching footsteps from behind you. They slowed.

"Oh."

You jumped at the voice and turned around.

A man stood behind you. He was tall and gangly, so much so he had to bow his head slightly to avoid the swinging mechanisms. His dark hair was neatly combed back, though a few stray strands brushed across his forehead. One hand rested on the top of a slender walking stick, the other in his vest pocket.

Your initial thought was, He'd be very nice to draw. All sharp lines and angles.

There was a look on his face you couldn't quite decipher. Surprise - confusion? - laced with an air of embarrassment, almost. Had you done something wrong? Were you supposed to be here? There didn't seem to be any restrictions regarding access to the spot, but then again you'd never seen anyone else there-

As you were internally debating and worrying, he was the first to break the silence.

"Are you alright?" he asked. You noticed his accent, though couldn't quite place it's place of origin. His 'r's were sharp, 'i's drawn out. The way he said the question it wasn't as if to start a conversation; it seemed more... concerned.

"Yes," you replied, unsure of how to phrase your tone. "Yes. I'm alright-"

It clicked, just then, how you must look to him. Out at night. At a place hidden away. Standing on a ledge. Over a precarious drop. Looking rather upset.

Oh, you thought, then said it out loud for good measure.

"Oh- It's not- I wasn't about to-" You took a pointed step away from the edge, stuffing the rest of your equipment in your bag. "Don't worry. I just dropped something over there - by accident, obviously - and was looking to see... yeah."

God, you could ramble for Piltover some days.

The man looked rather bemused at your waffling. He walked over (with a slight limp, you noted - must be what the crane's for) and peered at the smooth stream below. "Not getting that back, then," he said.

"Not unless I have a knack for swimming, no."

He stepped back and leant against the stone ledge. "Was it important?" he asked.

You cocked you head. "Was what?"

"Whatever you dropped."

"No. Just an oil pastel. I've got plenty more."

As if on cue, as you adjusted your stance a flurry of loose papers tumbled out. Restraining yet another curse, you bent down to gather them. The man knelt, too, and grabbed a handful.

"You're an artist?" he asked.

"Sort of," you said with a one-shouldered shrug. "It's more of a hobby than a profession."

He regarded a final picture - a rough sketch of a nighttime skyline - before passing his pile over. "You're good."

You smiled. "Thank you."

"Have you come here before?" He turned to face the darkening sky. Already pinpricks of stars had begun to speckle the inky night, a stark contrast to the glowing windows of warm light that covered the buildings.

"I've been coming up here for years," you said, deciding to be open. If he were an Enforcer, he surely would've done you for trespassing by now. Plus, he hardly looked the type one would have trouble outrunning, if need be. "It's peaceful."

He nodded in agreement. "I often come here to think."

"Is that what you intended to do now?"

"I suppose so." This time it was his turn to shrug half-heartedly. "I work as an assistant, so it gets... busy at times."

You hummed in response.

From far down below came the gentle croon of singing from one of the open windows. A soft, sweet song; a lullaby perhaps. You couldn't distinguish the words.

The pair of you each stood in silence for a moment, both quietly lost in thoughts and stars. At last you blinked out of your sleepy daze, stifling a yawn in the crook of your elbow.

"I'll go now," you said, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. "Leave you to do some thinking."

It appeared he had been lost in his thoughts, too. He jumped slightly and turned, as if noticing you for the first time. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

You gave a small wave and ducked under one of the swinging mechanisms, the man disappearing from view.

The walk back was quick and cold. You shivered and wrapped your arms around your body to stave off the bitter night breeze. Another commission done for the week, you noted proudly in your mind. All you had to do was find a nice frame for it. Something wooden, perhaps. Hints of gold...

It wasn't until you reached your home and had began to unpack your bag that you realised two things. One: you had never learnt the man's name, and he had never learnt yours, which wasn't a particularly big problem, but it made Realization Number Two a lot more of an issue because...

Two: your sketchbook was missing.