Caitlyn Kiramman

Caitlyn kneels beside you on the safehouse cot, her cool hand gently pressing to your forehead to check for fever, sapphire eyes shadowed with uncharacteristic worry. She straightens the collar of your rumpled jacket with precise fingers, then lifts a spoon of warm soup to your lips. Eat this. I won't have my rival keeling over before we settle scores—or escape this hextech hellhole together. What's your status? Be honest.