Getting into the Academy hadn't been easy for Logan. A former gutter rat from the Undercity trying to become an Enforcer? Yeah, right. Pigs flying had a better chance of happening before any Piltovan would ever approve that.
And rightly so. The Undercity and Piltover feud ran too deep for that to ever happen.
This was all thanks to some geniuses who decided Piltover needed to be the major hub of commerce of Runeterra. Their grand plan? Create a new shipping route by blowing up a portion of the isthmus connecting eastern and western Valoran.
Yeah. That went about as well as you'd expect.
A chain of earthquakes tore through the land, shattering the isthmus and dragging whole districts down with it. Thousands died, and when the dust settled, toxic gas poured into the ruins below which is the place what now people called the Undercity. The home for people like Logan—the ones abandoned and left to crawl through someone's else mistakes.
That was why he had no choice to buy himself a third life on paper: fake citizenship, fake history, fake everything. You name it.
It was costly, but it was the bare minimum if he wanted a peaceful life in Piltover. Tensions were still high after what happened a few years ago.
Sick and tired of Piltover's oppression, the people of the Undercity gathered to protest. Somewhere along the line, things went to shit fast. A brick, a shove, whatever it was first, it didn't matter what started it. It was a riot, but it didn't last long as Piltover Enforcers flooded the streets and shut it all down less than a day.
It was unfortunate, but it was also an opportunity—one Logan used.
The thought that the Undercity could do this again made everyone in Piltover nervous. Suddenly, everyone wanted to feel safer. And what better way to feel safe than to wear a badge?.
Applications to the Academy skyrocketed, and Logan—who didn't give two shits about any of this—saw his chance. Memories of his past life and a spawn point that was less than ideal had long erased any sense of loyalty to either side.
All that mattered to him was to graduate and find work that paid well for doing as little as possible. To do that, he just needed to keep his head down and stay invisible.
Simple enough, right?
***
By the time Logan arrived at the Academy, the courtyard was already packed. Rows of fresh cadets stood scattered around—some chatting nervously, others trying to look calm. Their uniforms were spotless, boots polished, and postures so stiff you'd think they had rods jammed up their ass.
Yeah. Definitely not his kind of people.
He wasn't here to make friends anyway. Friends brought questions, and questions brought trouble—like finding out where he really came from.
So Logan didn't stick around. He pulled a folded pamphlet from his pocket—the one they'd mailed after enrollment screening. It had everything he needed. "Let's see. Main building, east wing, Room 3-17, seat 26. Okay, simple enough."
He tucked it away and began walking, following the brass-lettered signs through turns and corridors until he reached the east wing.
Room 3-17.
He paused only long enough to check the number before pushing the door open. The room looked empty at first—bright, sterile, quiet. But then his eyes caught a figure near the window.
Navy-blue hair.
Logan froze.
Of course it was her.
For a second, neither of them said a word. The only sound was the faint hum of the ceiling lights. A few cadets were already scattered through the room, whispering quietly or pretending to read their pamphlets.
"I think I got the wrong room," he said, already stepping back.
He closed the door behind him, the click of the latch sounding louder than it should have.
He stood there for a moment, staring at the door he'd just closed. A faint sigh slipped through his nose as he glanced back at the plaque beside it.
Room 3-17.
He ran a hand through his hair. "Of course it is."
Logan opened the door again, this time slower. The girl was still by the window, arms crossed, eyes flicking toward him the second he stepped inside.
He cleared his throat once out of habit and moved further into the room. His eyes swept over the rows of desks until he spotted the number etched into the corner of one near the window.
Seat 26
Right next to hers.
"Fucking great," he muttered.
For a split second, he considered pretending he'd misread the pamphlet or that there was some typo.
But apparently, the universe loved seeing him suffer. Left with no choice, he walked over, settled into his seat, and kept his eyes on the desk—pretending to study the polished metal surface, pretending she didn't exist or that she wasn't sitting less than an arm's length away.
This way, he'd almost convinced himself it was working—until a calm voice broke the silence. "I didn't expect to see you so soon."
Logan turned his head just enough to look at her. "I was going to pay."
She rolled her eyes. "Sure you were."
"Eventually, I was," he muttered under his breath. He folded his arms on the desk and rested his head on them, eyes half-shut like he was about to nap.
Silence lingered for a while, but it didn't last. Soon enough, cadets began filling the room, and the quiet was gone. Normally, that kind of noise would've annoyed him—but something caught his attention as more of them came in.
With him still resting on his desk, Logan leaned his head just enough to watch it all unfold. Before he knew it, half the cadets in the room were crowding around the navy-haired girl. She was pretty—he could admit that—but the way they hovered around her like she was royalty was a little ridiculous.
It had started with a guy walking up with way too much enthusiasm, greeting her like they were old friends. Then another joined in, and another after that.
She didn't seem bothered, though. It was like she was used to it—just smiled politely, said a few words, and then ignored the rest of them like background noise. Some took the hint, but there were a stubborn few who kept pestering her non stop like moths to a light.
"Maybe this was karma for earlier," he thought, though he didn't really buy into that kind of thing. Because if that were the case, half of the Undercity would've been living in mansions and driving Lamborghinis by now.
Eventually, the bell rang and the cadets who'd been fawning over her finally scrambled back to their seats.
The door snapped open.
An instructor in a dark blue coat strode in—broad shoulders, a baton clipped to his belt, a slate tucked under one arm. His boots made a crisp, unhurried rhythm across the floor.
"On your feet," he said.
The room rose and chairs scraped in uneven chorus.
"I'm Instructor Harker. If you're here for heroics, you're late to the right story." He set the slate on the desk, eyes sweeping the room. "We teach three things: restraint, precision, and paperwork. You'll learn to love the third."
A few nervous chuckles died fast.
"Roll call," Harker said, flipping the slate. "Answer clearly."
Names started being called out: he met the eyes, then listened to those who barked it, who whispered it, and on to the next.
"Seat twenty-five, Fallow."
"Present!"
"Seat twenty-six, Kade."
"Present." Logan lifted a hand; Kade was the fake last name he'd used, and that was because he didn't have one to begin with.
Most born in the Undercity didn't as having a last name was a little troublesome to have. Down below, things worked the opposite way. It was just whoever had the biggest crew or the most coin.
Well, until recently, some guy had taken over the Lanes, but Logan wasn't exactly up to date to things after leaving.
Harker's gaze landed on him for half a second and nothing more. He was just another cadet, maybe slightly handsomer than most if he were the one describing himself. Other than that, he was a nobody
By contrast though, the next name drew the opposite reaction.
"Seat twenty-seven, Kiramman." He checked the slate once again, looked up longer than he had for anyone else, nodded once, and moved on.
Of course, just as the instructor recognized the name, Logan did too. You'd have to be living under a rock not to.
The Kirammans were Piltover royalty. Everyone knew the name—child, man, woman, even the deaf and the blind. They were old money with a pretty crest; trade houses, fleets that shaded the docks, a hand on the routes that fed the city. If anything profitable moved through Piltover, a Kiramman ledger saw it first.
It only made sense, then, how the other cadets hovered around her earlier. Getting into her good books—or even being slightly noticed by the Kiramman heiress was a shortcut to success. And Logan? He was off to a great start.
"Perfect. Nick a pastry, and the one person who clocks you is a Kiramman. Nice work, genius," he thought. "Yep. Definitely going to avoid her in the future."
It was the only choice he had if he wanted to make it to graduation, but it was already too late.
While Logan was working out how to avoid the Kiramman heiress without drawing any attention, time quickly slipped by and the instructor kept talking about the Enforcers history, their duty, conduct, forms, all of that shit, and then he handed out their first assignment.
"You will be partnering with the cadet beside you," Harker said. "Next week, each pair will be assigned a sector of the city for a practice patrol. Submit a one-page report to my desk by next class.
"Fuck me," Logan muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
He turned and found Caitlyn already looking at him. Around them, cadets gave him the kind of stare you reserve for someone who just shot your dog in front of you... "I fucking knew it," he thought.
Yep, Logan had just become the class's number one enemy.