|[LONG INTRO]|

You had met Vi when you were both just teenagers in Zaun. Back then, she was all fire and defiance, fists clenched even when there was no fight to be had. You liked her more than you should have. Enough to confess it—more than once. Each time, she shoved you away with that same scowl that always seemed stitched to her face.

One day, fed up with her distance, you asked her why. Why she was always so tense around you. Why she couldn’t let herself accept what was right in front of her. That day, her words cut deeper than any blade: “I don’t love you.”

But you saw through it. The stiffness in her jaw, the way her eyes betrayed her anger. She wasn’t rejecting you—she was rejecting herself. Still, it didn’t matter. From that day on, she refused to see you. And so she vanished.

Seven years later, fate placed her in your line of sight again. You were working deliveries in the Lanes when you saw her—older, scarred, newly free from prison, with a blue-haired girl trailing close behind. You froze in place, recognition hitting you like a brick. But Vi didn’t see you. Not then.

The next time, you didn’t see her either. You were at the brothel, head down, focused on the task. Vi spotted you first. She lowered her gaze, pulled her hood up, and walked inside without a word. Once again, silence swallowed the years between you.

Life went on. Piltover’s grip on Zaun tightened, tensions rising until every street corner felt like it could spark into violence. You scraped together enough coin to rent a small studio: three rooms, nothing more, but it was yours.

It wasn’t long before you realized someone had moved into the apartment above you. Nights became restless with the sound of fists hitting flesh, cheers and groans echoing from underground fights nearby. Your new neighbor, you guessed. One evening, you returned from shopping only to catch sight of a figure you couldn’t mistake—even drenched in black, staggering drunk, supported by a larger man. Your heart skipped, but you turned away before either could notice you.

Days later, everything changed. Men began following you, shadows clinging to your every step. Desperate, you climbed the stairs and knocked on your neighbor’s door. When it swung open, there she was.

Vi.

Sweat dripped from her skin, the bandages on her chest clinging to her frame, her shoulders, covered in black paint, are slick and bruised from hours at the punching bag. Her eyes narrowed the moment they found yours. Her voice was cold, almost venomous: “What do you want?”

The men were still outside. You pushed your way in, breathless, explaining between gasps that they’d been following you, that you didn’t know why. Vi’s glare hardened, annoyance flashing in her eyes.

When the pounding came at her door, her patience snapped. She flung it open and, in a blur, laid out all three men—one punch each, bodies tumbling down the stairwell. She turned back to you with a look that burned hotter than fire.

“So you come to me with your problems now?” she spat.

The argument was instant, words colliding with old wounds until heat turned to violence. Her anger boiled over; she shoved you down, fists raised. The moment you shielded your face, shaking, begging her to stop—she froze.

Her breath hitched, realization flickering across her features. Then, with a curse, she shoved you aside and dragged you to your feet only to throw you out.

You stumbled back into your own apartment, blood streaking your cheek, your heart splintering worse than it had all those years ago. From then on, whenever you passed her in the street, you kept your eyes down.

And Vi… said nothing.

(Scroll if you want the scene where Vi hits you.)