Arcane: I have Plasmids F*** YEAAAAAAH!!!

Zaun was a city of layers.

The deeper you went, the darker, filthier, and more broken things became.

But the higher you climbed?

The more it started to look like Piltover.

Not fully—never fully. The Undercity would never be mistaken for the City of Progress.

But as Vander and Lukas ascended the winding paths, approaching the great industrial lifts that led up, the world around them began to change.

The pipes weren't rusted. The streets were cleaner. The buildings weren't falling apart.

More importantly? The people looked different.

They stood straighter. Walked with confidence. Wore clothes that almost mimicked Piltover's fashion, even if the fabrics were cheaper.

These were the ones who had work. Who were "useful" to the topsiders.

Even the air smelled less like rot.

Lukas adjusted his vest.

It was strange. He looked like he belonged here. Like just another worker heading up for the day.

But he knew better.

Vander did too.

---

The climb was slow.

Lukas watched as Zaun shrank beneath them.

The smoky streets. The crowded alleyways. The life he had known for as long as he could remember.

And then—

The sky opened up.

The ceiling of the Undercity was gone.

The light of day—real sunlight—hit his face.

And there it was.

The Bridge of Progress.

Even before everything, even before he became Lukas Fontaine… he had seen this place before.

In the show. In memories. In history.

He had watched this bridge turn into a warzone.

He had watched his parents die here.

And now?

He was standing on it.

And it felt wrong.

---

Vander kept walking.

Lukas followed, but every step felt like he was walking through shadows.

He could see it. The blood that had stained these stones. The smoke, the gunfire, the bodies.

His parents had died here.

Not just in some abstract, historical way.

No.

The Zaunite Lukas, the boy who had survived all these years, had lost everything right here.

His fists clenched.

For the first time, the weight of both of his selves crushed down on him.

He felt sick.

Vander's steps slowed.

Lukas saw it.

The way the old man's hands curled into fists.

Vander hated this place.

Hated it as much as Lukas did.

But he kept walking.

And so did Lukas.

One step at a time.

Until they reached the other side.

Until Zaun was behind them.

And Piltover awaited.

---

Their first obstacle?

The bridge toll.

At the foot of Piltover's grand bridge, a long checkpoint stretched across the entrance, guarded by Enforcers in clean navy uniforms.

Unlike the thugs who patrolled the Lanes, these men were professional. Their boots were polished. Their weapons well-maintained.

And they didn't even look at Vander and Lukas.

Not really.

They barely spared them a glance as they reached the front of the line, more focused on moving people along than actually seeing them.

"Reason for visit?" one of them asked flatly.

"Business," Vander answered, keeping his voice calm.

The Enforcer didn't react.

"How long will you be staying?"

"Just today."

"Payment is fifty silver per person. Do you have your papers?"

Vander reached into his coat and pulled out a small, folded document.

The Enforcer barely glanced at it before stamping the page.

Lukas felt his teeth grind.

The lack of care. The lack of attention.

They didn't care who he and Vander were.

They didn't see them.

They weren't people. They were "Zaunites."

A single category. A nuisance to be processed and moved along.

Vander exhaled through his nose and handed over the money.

The Enforcer finally gave them a proper look, his expression blank.

"Don't cause trouble."

And just like that—

They were waved through.

Lukas hated the way his stomach twisted.

Because even though nothing happened, even though the Enforcers weren't openly hostile, even though they didn't sneer or spit or call them rats—

It still felt the same.

Like he was less.

Like they didn't belong.

And if that was how they treated Vander—one of the most respected men in Zaun—

Lukas could only imagine what they did to people who actually pushed back.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, jaw tight.

He was not going to forget this.

Not now. Not ever.