The moon, a spectral disc in the inky sky, cast a dim, ethereal glow over Piltover’s harbor. The city’s pulse, usually a vibrant thrum of innovation and industry, softened into the quiet sighs of the night. A gentle breeze carried the scent of salt and the distant clang of the docks, a lullaby for the slumbering metropolis. Yet, beneath this veneer of tranquility, in the shadowed recesses of a colossal warehouse, tension coiled like a spring.
Four figures, cloaked in darkness, were etched against the corrugated steel of the warehouse wall. The structure loomed, a silent sentinel, its weathered facade reflecting the city’s industrious spirit, now dimmed under the moon’s gaze. Golden slivers of light, escaping through the building’s seams, pulsed with a faint rhythm, hinting at the machinery slumbering within. Among the group, Benzo, his youthful frame wiry and tense, shifted his weight impatiently. His fingers drummed a silent rhythm against the crowbar strapped to his back, a stark contrast to the meticulous focus of Silco beside him.
Silco, lean and precise, was a study in concentration. His long, deft fingers worked with the delicate instruments of his trade, a lockpick dancing within the padlock securing the warehouse doors. Each minute click of the tumblers was a small victory fought in the silence of the night, a testament to his skill, yet agonizingly slow for Benzo’s escalating anxiety. The air thrummed with unspoken urgency, every rustle of fabric, every distant splash of water amplifying the weight of their clandestine operation. “Hurry,” Benzo breathed, the word barely a whisper, his pent-up energy threatening to breach the fragile veil of their stealth.
