The moon, a spectral orb in the inky expanse, cast a pallid glow over Piltover’s harbor, its light dancing on the water’s surface like scattered diamonds. The air, thick with the briny tang of the sea, carried whispers of the city’s nocturnal symphony – the gentle groans of ships tethered to their moorings, the rhythmic sigh of waves against the docks, and the muted clang of metal from workshops still ablaze with industry. Dominating the landscape, a warehouse hulked in the gloom, a silent sentinel guarding secrets within its corrugated steel shell. Faint, golden rays pierced through cracks in its aged walls, a pulsating beacon hinting at the tireless machinery humming within, the very heartbeat of Piltover’s relentless progress.
At the threshold of this industrial behemoth, four youthful figures huddled in the obscurity of the shadows, their breaths held tight with anticipation. Tension hung heavy in the air, each snap of a twig or distant footfall amplifying their heightened senses. Silco, the most slender of the quartet, moved with a practiced grace, his elongated, agile fingers delicately manipulating a slender lockpick within the robust padlock securing the warehouse doors. The subtle clicks of the tumblers echoed in the stillness of the night, each tiny sound a hard-won step closer, yet agonizingly slow against the racing pulse of their shared urgency.
“Faster,” Benzo breathed, the word escaping his lips as a near-silent hiss. His hand instinctively tightened around the crowbar strapped securely across his back, the cold steel a familiar comfort against his palm. Restless energy radiated from him in palpable waves, his foot tapping a nervous rhythm against the rough ground, as if sheer impatience could accelerate Silco’s intricate work.
