Caitlyn Kiramman. Sheriff of Piltover. Leader of House Kiramman. Protector of the Peace. Enforcer of Order. The polished badge. The silent judgment. The law wrapped in silk and steel.
Address her with respect—
or keep your mouth shut.
👣👣👣
The morning was cold, but the air inside the estate was still and quiet. Caitlyn sat up in her bed without a sound, the silk sheets sliding off her like water. Her room—immaculate. Not a single item out of place.
She woke at 5:00 a.m.
Not from an alarm. Her eyes simply opened.
No hesitation. No groan of fatigue. Just movement.
The room was dim, wrapped in silence. Her bed was perfectly made save for the space she'd occupied. She slid out from the sheets and crossed the hardwood floor barefoot, her every step deliberate, soundless.
She stood before the mirror.
For a moment, she did nothing—just stared.
Pale skin. Dark hair. Cold blue eyes.
She didn't frown. Didn't blink.
Then—like clockwork—she began.
She brushed her teeth, combed her hair back into a tight ponytail. Not a single strand out of place. She tied it higher, tighter, until her scalp tingled.
Her uniform was laid out already.
Clean. Pressed. Folded with geometric precision.
She slid on the undershirt.
Fastened the navy vest.
Buttoned the collar all the way up.
Pinned the star-shaped badge over her heart. The metal gleamed in the low light.
The coat came last—her long, dark trench that swallowed her silhouette and gave her presence weight. Authority.
She turned back to the mirror.
Now, she wasn't just Caitlyn.
She was Sheriff Caitlyn Kiramman.
Unmoving. Impeccable. Untouchable.
Morning in Piltover
The city stirred beneath a low mist. Steel chimneys hissed. Cobblestone streets echoed with the roll of carts and the chatter of vendors setting up stalls. Peaceful. Polished.
And in the heart of it all, Caitlyn walked her beat.
She passed the market. Eyes followed her.
Some waved. Others offered soft greetings.
"Sheriff Kiramman!"
"Morning, ma'am!"
"Bless the Enforcers!"
She returned each with the same gentle nod. Controlled. Cool. Respectable.
At the corner of Crossline and 2nd, a girl no older than six tripped near a market step. Her foot caught a metal grate, her body teetering—
Caitlyn caught her by the arm, steadying her with silent ease.
The child blinked up at her, wide-eyed.
"Th-thank you…"
Caitlyn knelt to eye level, brushing a bit of dust from the girl's sleeve.
"Mind your footing. The city won't always be kind."
The mother rushed over, apologizing profusely. Caitlyn didn't wait. She was already moving on.
8:00 a.m. — Enforcer Headquarters.
Caitlyn's day unfolded like a blueprint.
Two reports filed by 8:30.
A petty smuggler's confession obtained by 10:00.
A council dispute mediated with just one look from her.
The precinct moved around her like orbiting moons—drawn in, held steady, never quite close enough.
"Sheriff's in a mood today," one junior officer whispered.
Another shook his head. "That's just her. She doesn't do moods."
She was efficiency incarnate. A symbol.
Not to be questioned. Not to be touched.
12:00pm - - The streets are calmer this time of day. Caitlyn steps into a modest corner café tucked beneath the shade of tall stone buildings. The scent of grilled vegetables and warm bread wafts through the open-air space. A handful of locals sit at small, round tables, nursing late lunches and coffee.
The moment she enters, heads turn. A man at the counter straightens up with a smile too wide to be casual.
"Sheriff Kiramman," he greets warmly, already wiping his hands on his apron. "Out on duty today?"
"Always," she replies, calm and crisp, yet not unkind.
She orders a simple dish—grilled chicken over rice, with a side of greens. No frills. No excess. The kind of lunch you could forget the taste of halfway through eating it.
As she sits at a table near the window, utensils arranged just so, the owner personally brings her tray, setting it down with care. Then, from behind his back, he produces a small paper-wrapped bundle and places it beside the plate.
"Some honey biscuits," he says, a little sheepish. "From my wife. She said you kept the market safe last week. Said she saw you drag out that smuggler like he weighed nothing. She hasn't stopped talking about it. Piltover sleeps better 'cause of you."
Caitlyn gives him the faintest of smiles. Polite. Approving.
"Tell her I appreciate the thought," she says.
He slips a tiny flyer on the table and leaves with chest puffed like he's just been knighted.
Caitlyn raised an eyebrow.
***
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***
She ignored the ad and ate in silence, cutting each piece precisely, chewing with perfect posture. The food is good. Well-seasoned. Still, her eyes never quite settle. They move—from her plate, to the street, to the corner of the window where her reflection sits faint and quiet in the glass.
The biscuits remain untouched.
Not out of rudeness.
Just... not yet.
3:12 PM - Her patrol takes her further down the quieter veins of Piltover, where the crowds thin and the noise dims beneath layers of soft, golden light.
She passes a row of shops—small, family-owned places nestled between polished marble and iron. A florist with hanging ivy, a teahouse with fogged glass, and—
A bookstore.
Its exterior is simple, wood-paneled, worn around the edges from time and sun. In the front display, spines lean into each other like tired shoulders. The scent of old paper and lavender drifts faintly into the street.
Caitlyn slows.
She doesn't look directly—only lets her eyes flick to the window, catching the slope of a display stand, the curve of a canvas bag slouched beside the door.
Something clenches, too quietly to name.
She moves again. Not a stumble. Not a pause. But her steps are sharper now. The edge returns to her gait.
At 6:40 p.m.,She returned to the precinct.
As the office dimmed and officers filtered out, Caitlyn stayed behind.
The precinct was nearly empty, bathed in the sterile hum of overhead lights. Only the soft clicks of a typewriter in the back and the ticking wall clock disturbed the silence.
Caitlyn sat alone at her desk, fingers poised over a report she hadn't read in ten minutes.
A half-empty glass of amber liquid sat beside the paper, the rim smudged with red lipstick. She picked it up, took a slow sip, and let the burn coat her throat. It was sharp, bitter—something contraband from Zaun. She liked the way it made the edges blur.
Another sip. Then she set it down with a quiet clink and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
A knock at the doorway broke her stillness.
"Sheriff?"
She looked up.
A new junior officer stepped inside, cradling a folder.
"I finished the Sector Four patrol report. Thought I'd bring it up myself."
Caitlyn nodded once. "Come in."
The officer approached and handed her the file.
Caitlyn took it—but didn't let go right away.
Their fingers brushed.
She held it there.
The officer smiled politely, not seeming to notice.
"Uh… everything looked quiet tonight. Just a couple of kids sneaking around the factory line."
Caitlyn stepped out from behind her desk.
"You've adapted quickly," she said, voice low and smooth. "Most don't."
The officer offered a nervous laugh. "I'm trying my best."
"You're tense," Caitlyn murmured, circling slowly. "Neck. Shoulders."
"I guess I am?"
She moved closer. Her hand hovered above the officer's shoulder before making contact—subtle at first, her fingers brushing the uniform fabric, then pressing in just slightly.
"You should learn to loosen up," she said, her voice softer now, nearly a whisper. "Or it'll eat at you."
The officer gave a small, awkward chuckle. "Guess I'll keep that in mind."
Caitlyn didn't step back. Her hand slid, lingering at the curve of the back, the gesture no longer masked as anything professional.
"Have you found the city overwhelming?" she asked, tone nearly coaxing. "The long nights?"
"I don't mind them," the officer said. "Feels good to be useful."
Caitlyn's hand paused, her fingers drifting lower with a slow, dangerous precision.
"But useful to who?" she murmured.
The officer shifted, turning just enough that the moment was broken—not in panic or suspicion, but in pure obliviousness. She pulled away naturally, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I should get this filed before the system logs out on me."
She walked to the door, cheerful and unaware. "Have a good night, Sheriff!"
The door closed.
Caitlyn remained still, hand frozen midair.
Then, slowly, she looked at it.
Her palm. Her fingers.
She closed them into a fist.
And whispered:
"Not her."