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He has dreams.
The same dream, over and over. It’s not violent as his life is, not as he would expect. There are no corpses, no broken bones, no bodies strewn messily against the stone roads in the back-alleys of Noxus. There is no blood.
In fact, there is nothing. A white void, clear, pristine, and in it, only him, unarmed, facing a mirror. As he approaches, he realizes that it is not his own reflection facing him. Instead there is a woman, taller than him, broad-shouldered with a sharp jaw. She does not speak. Neither does he.
They move in unison, slowly, as if pushing through waves. Their hands reach up to touch the glass, to touch the other, but all they feel is the cold, metallic surface. Their palms flat, their fingers splayed, touching but not touching. Not once has he seen this woman before, and yet he feels as if he has known her all his life.
Those eyes. They're mine, aren't they?
Just as he’s about to ask her name, he wakes.
Next time, he thinks. Next time I’ll remember. Next time I’ll ask her name. But he never does. He always loses his chance, rising out and up into consciousness, the woman’s face nothing but a faded image in his mind, a ghost left to haunt him.
He hasn’t told anyone. He won’t. He ruminates quietly, wishing he had a name, wishing he could ask. The person in the mirror. He wonders if they’re real.
So does she.