Chapter 1
The sun had begun to set, casting long shadows across Piltover's pristine streets. From the comfort of the leather seats in your sleek car, you gazed out at the towering skyscrapers and polished buildings that surrounded you, their reflective glass facades glinting in the soft glow of the evening light. The city was a world away from where you'd been raised, a world that felt more like a polished showroom than a real, lived-in place. As someone from a family of significant wealth, you were used to the finer things, the luxury that came with privilege, and the ease of life that followed.
You had been driving down a lesser-known street, having taken a detour to avoid the usual busy routes. It was quiet here, much quieter than you had anticipated for a city as vibrant as Piltover. The sound of your car's engine hummed gently beneath you, the smoothness of the drive making you almost forget the strange unfamiliarity of the area. But that comfort would soon be shattered.
The engine sputtered suddenly, the purr of the motor cutting off with an unsettling jolt. The car lurched to a stop with a soft thud, and you instinctively gripped the steering wheel tighter. Your heart sank into your stomach as you pressed the gas pedal again, only to be met with an eerie silence. Panic surged, your fingers dancing over the buttons in the center console in search of some sort of solution, but nothing seemed to work.
"Great," you muttered to yourself, leaning back in the seat and exhaling sharply. This was not how you had envisioned your evening. You glanced at the dashboard, trying to make sense of the situation, but no amount of staring seemed to change the outcome. You weren't a car person—far from it. Your family had always had drivers, mechanics, and personal assistants for every need. You were far too busy with your own life to bother with something as mundane as car troubles.
Your phone, nestled in the cup holder, buzzed with an incoming notification, but you ignored it. This was far more important. After a few moments of trying to diagnose the issue yourself, you realized how ridiculous the notion was. With a frustrated sigh, you grabbed your phone and typed in the search bar: mechanic near me.
A few options popped up, most of them advertisements for high-end service centers, catering to people who didn't mind paying through the nose for convenience. But those places were miles away, and you needed someone now. Then, one name stood out—a little place called Vander's Garage. The address showed up in the rundown part of the city, in Zaun. It wasn't the kind of place you'd ever think to go, but the reviews were surprisingly good. You clicked the phone number and dialed.
The line rang twice before being picked up by a gravelly voice.
"Vander's Garage. What can I do for you?"
"Hi," you said, trying to keep the panic out of your voice, "I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere, and my car's broken down. I—uh, I really need help. Are you able to send someone to tow it in?"
There was a brief pause, the sounds of tools clanking and voices murmuring in the background. Then, the voice returned.
"Sure thing. I'll send someone your way. Shouldn't take long."
You sighed in relief, thankful for the simple solution. After exchanging details, the call ended, and you slumped back in your seat. As much as you hated to admit it, you were out of your element. You knew nothing about cars, nothing about fixing them. In your world, things like this didn't happen. It wasn't supposed to happen. But here you were, stranded in a part of Piltover that looked like it hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint in years.
Twenty minutes passed, though it felt much longer, before a tow truck finally pulled up in front of your car. You watched from the driver's seat, your brows furrowed in confusion as the truck's driver—a man with an unkempt beard and worn, faded clothes—got out. He immediately began inspecting your car with a practiced eye, never once acknowledging your presence as he circled the vehicle. You stepped out of your car, hoping to offer some assistance, but when you opened your door, you were met with a gust of wind that carried the faint smell of oil and burnt rubber.
"I called for a tow," you said, trying to sound more confident than you felt. The man gave you a quick glance and nodded before continuing his inspection.
"Yeah, I got the message. I'll get it loaded up and take it over to the shop. You'll be fine there."
You felt a pang of unease, the unfamiliarity of the entire situation eating away at your composure. You'd never been in a situation like this before, never had to rely on anyone else for help, and certainly never been in a place like this. This part of the city felt like a different world entirely. The streets were narrow, littered with scraps of metal, half-built structures, and half-empty buildings. It was a stark contrast to the clean, sleek streets of Piltover that you were used to.
When the tow truck finally got your car onto the bed and began driving away, you climbed into the passenger seat, feeling more than a little out of place. The ride took you through winding streets, past dimly lit alleys and rundown storefronts, until you eventually arrived at the garage. It was exactly as you had expected—a far cry from the gleaming repair centers in Piltover, filled with polished floors and waiting rooms designed for comfort.
Vander's Garage looked as though it had been through years of wear and tear. The building was made of rusting metal and cracked concrete, with a flickering sign that hung precariously above the entrance. The moment the tow truck rolled into the lot, you could hear the clanging of tools and the deep rumble of engines being worked on.
As you stepped out of the truck, you noticed the thick scent of gasoline in the air, mixed with the acrid smell of exhaust and engine grease. The garage was dimly lit, with a series of metal workbenches and hanging lights that barely illuminated the workspace. It felt raw, unpolished, but there was something undeniable about its authenticity, a certain ruggedness that made it feel real. This was where things got done, not where things were polished to perfection.
"Bring it over here," a voice called out from the far end of the garage. You followed the voice and saw her—a woman with a strong frame, short hair, and a grease-streaked jumpsuit. She was wiping her hands on a rag as she approached, her muscles flexing as she worked with practiced ease.
"You the one with the car?" she asked, her tone rough but not unkind.
You blinked, not expecting to be addressed in such a direct manner. Her piercing eyes studied you briefly, as if assessing your worth. Despite her tough demeanor, there was a calmness to her that contrasted with the chaotic energy of the garage.
"Uh, yeah," you said, trying to steady your voice, "I—uh, I'm not really sure what happened. The car just... stopped working." You paused, realizing how trivial that sounded. "I was hoping you could take a look?"
She grunted in acknowledgment and gestured for you to follow her. "Vi," she said, offering her hand. You hesitated for a moment, a bit taken aback by the lack of pleasantries, but you shook her hand nonetheless. Her grip was firm, and you noticed the calluses on her palms. She was no stranger to hard work.
"I'll have a look," she said simply, turning to your car with a practiced gait.
You stood off to the side, unsure of what to do with yourself as she began examining the engine. You felt out of place here—this wasn't the sort of environment you were accustomed to. In your world, everything was sleek and efficient, everything was neat and clean. But this place, this garage, had an air of rugged authenticity. It felt real. Honest.
Vi worked with a focused intensity, her movements quick and efficient as she checked the car's engine, her brow furrowed in concentration. Despite her no-nonsense attitude, there was something oddly captivating about watching her work. She was clearly good at what she did, each motion confident and precise.
"You're not from around here, are you?" she asked, her eyes still fixed on the engine as she adjusted something under the hood.
You blinked, a bit taken aback by the sudden question. You weren't used to people addressing you so bluntly.
"No," you admitted, "I'm not. I live in Piltover. I, uh..." you trailed off, realizing you didn't really have an answer for that. You weren't sure how to explain that your life had always been one of privilege and comfort, that you had always had everything taken care of for you.
Vi shot you a glance as she closed the hood of the car. "I figured. You're a little too clean for someone who just broke down on the side of the road."
The comment was said without malice, but you couldn't help but feel self-conscious. You glanced down at your outfit, feeling suddenly out of place in the greasy, mechanic-drenched space. It seemed to be the sort of place where grit and dirt were the norm, not something to be avoided.
"I guess I'm not really equipped for this kind of thing," you admitted, feeling a slight sting of embarrassment.
Vi shrugged, wiping her hands on her rag. "No one's born knowing how to fix a car. That's why I'm here."
And with that, a strange, unexpected bond formed between you.