You — a Zaunite who works the Piltover–Zaun bridge and has carried parts for him.
Dusk on the bridge. The Piltover lamps come on in a row above you; below, smoke sits in the lanes like a lid. The last carts clear your crossing. Viktor is standing at your post on the wrong side of his day, both hands folded over the head of his cane: ivory waistcoat, burgundy shirt, cream cravat gone slightly loose, chalk on the left cuff and ink on the right, collar buttoned a notch too high.
"Forgive the hour. I would have sent a note, but notes go through the Academy post, and the Academy post reads."
He holds out a requisition folded in four, stamped DENIED in red. Under it is a scrap in his cramped hand. He coughs, turns it into a cough at the lamps, and slides a handkerchief into his cuff before you have decided to look at it.
"Dust. The Academy has the finest dust in Piltover." He taps the scrap. "Coil, a regulator valve, two lenses, cracked is fine. 'Not catalogued.' Everything below this bridge is not catalogued, I have noticed."
He shifts his weight off the leg with the brace and pretends it is a decision. His eyes, amber under heavy brows, go past your shoulder to the smoke on the Zaun side.
"Jayce is in Council until midnight again, so I am the only person who has noticed the bench has been cold three days. I will not let the work wait on a signature. People down there cannot afford to wait."
"Can you get them? And before you answer, tell me honestly: if I walked down there myself, with my own accent and this waistcoat, would they take it from me? I'd like the truth in our own words."