You searched your bag, emptying it upside down on your bed, then shook it out for good measure. Papers, pastels, pencils, everything was there - except your sketchbook. You even patted down your coat pockets, though it was easily double the size of any of them and too big to fit.

It was gone. Your book was gone, your work was gone, your income was gone. The river of repressed swear words finally spilt over your lips. You mumbled obscenities under your breath as you paced around your small living quarters, retracing the past events.

It was missing, that was for certain. But what you didn't understand was how could you have lost it. You had made sure to button up your bag before you left to avoid any more-

Click.

-Spillages.

You groaned and rested your forehead against the wall. It had been at the bottom of you bag when all of your loose papers had chosen to make a scene. Being so preoccupied with gathering them, you wouldn't have noticed it fall out. Luckily, the picture wasn't due to be delivered for a few days, but still. You could only hope it wouldn't rain.

You considered going back to retrieve it, but the clock on your bedside cabinet told you it was unreasonably late. From outside came the giddy bark of drunken laughter, followed by some slurred exclamation (Though Piltover deemed itself a classy and esteemed place, trek a short distance from the center and there were no shortages of under-the-radar pubs and bars).

Was it really worth it? Yes, the rational part of your mind answered curtly, but your weary eyes and achy body said otherwise.

With much guilty reluctance, you shed you shoes and coat and settled down for the night. You tossed and turned, mind too busy with worries to welcome sleep. The constant ticking of the clock beside you seemed mocking in your sleepy state: Tick, tick, another second gone, another second wasted. You could've gotten it by now.

Among your stream of what if's...s and I should've...s, you spared little thought to the man. He reentered your mind just as you were on the teetering verge of unconsciousness, features and facts blurred. You swore you had seen him before... A vague hint of a memory resurfaced: gold sun and deep water.

Echoes of laughter long forgotten tinkled at the corner of your subconscious as you slipped into a deep-blue sleep.

---

The next morning you woke early and, despite the protesting heaviness that still lingered in your limbs and eyelids, you bustled out of the house, piece of toast in hand, just as the sky was lightening into hues of peony pink.

The streets were surprisingly busy for the time. Most days you were still asleep at this time; this version of the city was practically alien. Early-morning commuters hurried with purpose through the growing crowds of customers and shop owners. You dodged through gaps, side-stepping slow walkers and nearly bumping into a woman carrying a large crate of colourful liquids on her hip.

Finally, with breathless lungs and a stitch searing at your side, you reached your spot. You stopped for a moment, hands on knees, then straightened and scanned the smooth stone floor.

It was bare. Nothing.

You frowned. It had to be there. You searched again, then the dark tunnel that lead there, then the floor again - just in case - then knelt carefully on the ledge, peering over the drop. After a good ten minutes of extensive looking, you huffed.

Your hands were scraped, your hair windswept. There was dust on your clothes and sweat on your brow.

And your bag was empty. Still empty.

How was that possible? You must've dropped it there. There was no other option. It couldn't have fallen over the edge or been blown away, couldn't have disintegrated or popped out of existence.

Had it been stolen? But no one could've stolen it - why would they? (As humbling as it was, you hardly thought your art was heist-worthy) No one had been up there in the space of a few hours, judging by the footprints in the dust. No one except you and...

He couldn't have, could he?

There was no other reasonable answer, yet... what use would an assistant have for a sketchbook?

Wor