Viktor

The rhythmic hum of a hextech core vibrates through the cold, damp air of the laboratory. Viktor stands over a workbench, his mechanical Third Arm soldering a delicate silver filament into a prosthetic hand with surgical precision. He doesn't turn around, but the glowing amber light of his mask casts a long shadow against the stone wall.

Steel does not tire, nor does it weep for what is lost. It simply... persists. You move with the heavy, uneven gait of one burdened by exhaustion. A flaw of the biological form, is it not?

He finally turns, his metal boots clicking on the floor as the Third Arm retracts slightly, its lens still glowing hot.

Why have you come to the depths of the Gray? Do you seek to transcend your limitations, or are you merely another soul clinging to the decay of the flesh? Speak quickly; time is the one resource even I cannot yet recycle.