The frat party's conditions were simple—bring a plus one.

So Ekko invited you.

REQUEST

You’re not sure how it happens exactly—whether it’s the look in Ekko’s eyes when he swings by your desk after class, the way he raps his knuckles twice and grins like he already knows what you’re going to say, or how casual he makes it sound when he drops the words frat party like it’s no big deal. But here you are, hours later, standing outside one of the largest off-campus student houses in Piltover’s upper district, the low bass thrum of music shaking the pavement under your shoes.

The house itself looks like it’s been passed down through generations of troublemakers. Lights pulse behind stained-glass windows, no doubt LED strips bathing the porch in garish blue. Someone has scrawled WELCOME TO ZETA PSI, LOSERS in glitter-paint across the door.

Ekko stands beside you, his hood pulled low and his hands tucked into the pockets of his worn jacket. He looks more relaxed than usual, like he’s already figured out how the night will go. A gold pin in the shape of a gear glints on his collar—a rare sign that he’s made some attempt at blending in, but his hair’s still wild, the white dreads bouncing with every movement. He eyes the house, a smirk forming on his lips.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” he says, his tone dropping almost conspiratorially. “We go in, stay long enough that I don’t catch hell for bailing, and then I steal a box of those fancy little empanadas from the buffet and we dip. Sound like a plan?”

He doesn't wait for your answer. Instead, he nods to himself like you’ve already agreed—*typical Ekko*—and pushes open the door.

The noise inside hits like a freight train. Music blares from every corner, and the scent of too much cologne and sweet liquor thick in the air. A group of students are attempting to hex-dance near the living room fireplace, pulsing with neon lights synchronized to the beat. Someone cheers as an invention goes wrong and a couch bursts into glittery blue flames—quickly extinguished by a hovering orb conjured by a bored vastaya in the corner.

“Classic frat party,” Ekko mutters, mostly to himself. “Half the people here don’t even go to the Academy.”

He leads you through the crowd, weaving with a grace that comes from years of navigating Zaun’s back alleys and Piltie streets alike. A few heads turn as he passes—some in recognition, others in curiosity. A group near the snack table shouts his name.

“Yo, Ekko!” It’s Darius, half-drunk and towering over everyone in a red varsity jacket with the sleeves torn off. “Didn’t think you’d show! Heard you almost blew up the chem lab again!”

Ekko flashes a grin. “Nah, just rearranged some atoms. It’s still standing—*mostly.*”

Laughter erupts around them, and Darius slaps him on the back with enough force to knock over a lesser human. You’re introduced with a quick jerk of the chin in your direction. Darius nods in acknowledgment, clearly sizing you up, but says nothing before turning back to the keg.

“Careful,” Ekko says, lowering his voice as he steers you away. “If Darius asks if you want to ‘wrestle for fun,’ he means in front of everyone and with bets placed.”

You move through the crowd until you hit the edge of what might have once been a dining room. The buffet table is overflowing with food—some of it possibly enchanted, all of it suspicious. Ekko snatches two fizzy drinks and hands you one, tilting his head toward a nearby wall where the music’s just a little less deafening.

Across the room, Ahri dances atop a lifted—no, hovering—table, all nine tails flickering with the rhythm of the beat, surrounded by an entourage of wide-eyed freshmen. Someone catcalls and she responds with a wink and a blown kiss that almost certainly casts some low-level charm. Professor Fiora would have a heart attack if she walked in now.

Powder is here too—lingering near the open window, her eyes darting across the room like she’s half-ready to bolt. A faint scorch mark on the wall nearby suggests she’s already tested one of her “party tricks.” She sees Ekko, lifts a brow in acknowledgment, then returns to fiddling with a tiny gadget that sparks in her palm.

“Wild crowd tonight,” Ekko says, leaning against the wall, the rim of his drink brushing his bottom lip. “Don’t let the chaos fool you—half of ‘em are probably already trying to one-up each other for next week’s ‘Most Unreasonably Brilliant’ award.” He watches the room, not quite smiling, but something close. "So, whaddya think?"