You searched fruitlessly for another few minutes, hoping you might've missed an obvious spot, but it was hopeless.

On your way back, after passing through a small market to buy breakfast, you recounted your conversation with the assistant. The details were fuzzy, but you managed to remember two hopefully helpful points:

One, he was an assistant, but to who, or what, or where, or why, he hadn't said. His attire hadn't offered any clues, either, though the neat shirt and prim waistcoat suggested it was most likely something academic.

Two, he visited the place 'often'. To 'think'. But how often was 'often'? Every day? Every week? Every month?

You decided there was only one way you could go about retrieving it.

That night, after a day of procrastinating and painting, you trekked back to your spot. And waited. And waited. And waited. Until the sky darkened into the colour of deep water; until clusters of stars blinked to life, like shoals of bioluminescent fish.

The man didn't appear.

You had spent a good couple hours waiting, doodling absently on the pages of a small notebook you had intended to use to track your finances.

So. You had one answer, at least: 'Often' wasn't every day.

You revisited the place the next night, then - when the man failed to come again - the night after that. Then the night after that. Every time, you arrived armed with a flask of warming drink and a little pen and pad to sketch on, or a book to read, or lists of orders to log. Every time, you left tired, disappointed and still devoid of your sketchbook.

On the fifth night, as you stood, hand on doorknob, ready to leave, you debated if you should bother anymore - accept defeat, buy another sketchpad (one of less quality than the former - expenses were rather tight), and get on with your life. After all, it was just a sketchpad (An unreasonably expensive sketchpad in which a good portion of your adolescent life was logged and drawn, a little voice reminded you).

And yet...

"One more try," you whispered to yourself, a final promise. One more try, and then you'd give up.

---

You shivered and wrapped your coat tighter around you. The final dregs of the winter months were slowly giving way to the warmth of summer, but the air still had a bitter tinge to it. The echo of your footsteps merged with the rhythmic clanking of the machines above, like hands of a clock (All my time here, you thought, and I still don't know what they do).

Ducking under the final mechanism, you kept your head bowed as you extracted your book from your bag. However, you felt the pressure of a gaze on the crown of your head looked up.

And there, leaning against the smooth stone seat, was a man. The man.

He raised his eyebrows and offered a small nod in greeting. "Hello," he said.

It took an embarrassing amount of restraint not to grin like a madman. He's here! Finally! "Hello," you managed to respond.

He studied your face for a moment, hazel eyes sharp. You strained to keep eye contact. Recognition flashed in his features, and he returned his gaze to the view.

"You were here last time, yes?" he asked.

"I was." You stepped out of the shadow, into the last light emitted feebly by the sunset, and - after a moments hesitation - sat down on the slab opposite.

"What brings you here tonight? Drawing? Thinking?"

"You, actually."

Sweet stars above, you lamented internally. That's the cheesiest thing I've ever said.

"Me?" He turned around at that, equal parts intrigued and surprised.

"You have something of mine, I think," you said. When that prompted a blank look from him, you added, "My sketchbook?"

He blinked.

"You stole it."

You instantly regretted your choice of words the moment you spoke, but instead of being offended he looked almost amused. The corners of his mouth quirked upwards ever so slightly.

"Stole?" he questioned, placing a hand on his chest in mock offense. "You're calling me a thief?" It took you a moment to realise that he was joking, and allowed yourself to relax.

You exhaled an embarrassed laugh. "Sorry. That wasn't what I meant-"

"It's alright." He dismissed your apology with a small wave. "I suppose I did in a way. You weren't to know."

"Why take it?

"Your drawings are very good. You have a talent for it. I thought it would be a waste for it to be left here, so I took it - for safe keeping. I had all intentions of returning it, but unfortunately none of the pictures were signed, meaning I couldn't locate you. I recommend you do, in future instances - sign your work, that is."

"So... where is it now?" You felt rude for asking so abruptly, but afterall, this is what you came for; not some small talk.

You weren't quite sure why, but you were rather disappointed when his answer was: "At my house." What were you expecting? He hardly had reason to carry it around with him. You should be lucky he hasn't thrown it in the nearest bin and left it for waste, a humbling voice at the back of your mind reminded you.

"If you're available tomorrow," he continued, noticing your dismay, "I should be able to find some time to return it to you."

"Really? That'd be great. I'm free do any time before noon, preferably."

He offered to drop it off at your house if he wasn't able to make it, but you declined. As much as you couldn't be bothered to face another trek through the city, you - quite rationally - decided that giving your address out to random men wasn't the best idea. You settled for meeting where you currently were.

"I apologise for not returning it sooner," he said quietly. "I hope it didn't cause you too much stress."

"No, no," you lied through a smile. The newly-fresh lines beneath your eyes betrayed you. "I've been fine."

To your surprise, he cast you a knowing look at your answer. "No need to be polite. I know I wouldn't be able to sleep if one of my journals went missing."

You stared at your shoes to hide your face. "Okay, maybe I've been completely stressed out for the past few days. And haven't slept. Maybe."

Before he could analyse you any more, you quickly changed the topic. "Journals? What do you do?" you asked.

"I'm a scientist. An... assistant to one, at least. " A look crossed his face - a pitying mix of defeat and burden. He blinked it off, but traces still lingered in the lines of his mouth, the crease between his eyebrows. "I help out: write up reports, fix and clean equipment, that kind of business. All the things he's too busy for."

"So not the most challenging job, then."

"No. Though you can hardly expect the head of the Council to clean out test tubes, can you?"

You gaped, convinced you'd heard him wrong. "Head of the Council?" you repeated, incredulous. "You work for Heimerdinger?"

He shrugged a shoulder dismissively, as if he wasn't right-hand-man to one of the literal founders of Piltover.

"Eh, it's not as exciting as it sounds," he said, much to your disbelief. "Well paying, yes, but hardly revolutionary. I carry papers, I oversee events, I reach objects that are too high up." He chuckled ruefully. "Still... I am grateful I suppose."

"Oh wow, you should be. Gosh- I'm so sorry to be wasting your time like this," you blurted, fumbling over your words. "You probably have much more important things to do than chasing around some nobody-"

His brow furrowed. "You're not a 'nobody'."

"Well, in comparison to you..."

"Did you know who Heimerdinger's assistant was before you met me?" he asked. You sensed an almost bitter weariness in his tone.

"No..?"

"When we first met, did you instantly recognise me?"

You could see where this was going.

"No."

"Did you even know Heimerdinger had an assistant?"

"...No."

"Exactly. I am just as much of a nobody as you are. A higher class one, maybe, but a nobody none the less." He tilted his face up to the sky, moonlight basking his features. "I am condemned to being a shadow. I don't mind, truthfully, but..."

He sighed and took a pocket watch from his vest, deftly flicking it open then shut. "It's getting late," he said, signalling the end of the conversation. "I should be going. I don't believe I caught your name last time, did I?"

"I'm Y/N," you replied. "Nice to meet you. And you're..?"

"Viktor."

Viktor. Sharp, staccato, ennounciated. It suited him.

"Well, goodbye Viktor."

"Goodbye, Y/N."

You stepped aside to let him past, but before passing he stopped. From his pocket he extracted his watch, letting it dangle by the chain.

"Here," he said, holding it out to you. "Compensation."

You took it uncertainly. The metal was cold and smooth against your warm skin. "What do you mean?" you asked.

"Now you have my watch, and I have your book. I have a reason to return now."

"You mean you weren't intending to do so out of the kindness of your heart?" you joked. "Shocking."

He smiled and gently pressed your fist shut around the watch with his hand. You let your hand linger for a second, surprised at the gesture, before sticking it in your pocket. His hands were cold.

"Keep it safe," he said after a beat, then he nodded farewell, turned, and disappeared into the passageway.

You listened to the rhythmic tap tap-tap of his footsteps and cane fade into the night's ambience, waiting for the shock of physical contact to dissipate and allow you to move again. Eventually, you slowly opened your fist and inspected the trinket. It was good quality - very good quality. The silver metal was unblemished, the chain intricately made up of dozens of tiny links. Engraved on the back was a single, elegant V.

Boring assistant jobs must pay well, you thought.

---

The prospect of finally retrieving your sketchbook sparked a new surge of energy in you, and over the next day you managed to complete and delivery a number of commissions you had previously delayed due to procrastination.

Eager to finally get all the hassle over and done with, you left for yours and Viktor's meeting place early. However, when you reached there, Viktor was nowhere to be seen. In his place, trapped beneath a rock to prevent it from blowing away, was a scrap of paper. A note. You picked it up and unfolded it.

In a swooping scrawl of hurried handwriting, it read:

Y/N,

Something important came up - can't make it. If you're interested in a job, be at the address above by noon. I think you'll find it interesting.

Many apologies, and hopefully see you there,

Viktor

"You've got to be kidding me," you breathed, consulting the note again to confirm it wasn't a figment of your exhausted imagination. Nope, it was still there. Unlike Viktor.

At this point, you'd be too old and frail to pick up a pencil before you finally got the damned book back.

You glanced at his watch, which you had kept securely tucked away in your pocket until then. Quarter to twelve, the slender hands indicated.

The address seemed to be in a relatively wealthy area only a short walk from where you were. If you left now, you'd make it just on time.

While walking back, at an intersection on the street, you hesitated. Maybe you should go home. You had work to do, had orders to pack, pictures to paint. Had more important business than playing hide-and-seek with Heimerdinger's sly fox of an assistant.

But...

You'd made it too far to give up, you reasoned with yourself. Why not?

And with that you turned left, heading towards the address.

Towards the unknown.

Wor