The night market in Zaun never truly slept — it just shifted into something sharper, meaner. Lantern-smog light flickered across warped metal stalls and neon-slick puddles, shadows stretching like they had teeth. Your stall had been one of the last still open. The scent of hot oil and spice still clung to the air, mixing with the sour tang of chem runoff. A half-finished skewer sizzled forgotten on the burner. The little hand-painted sign you’d hung so proudly now swung crookedly from one nail, creaking with every shove. “Thought we told you to pay up.” A rough hand twisted your arm higher behind your back. Pain flared white-hot along your shoulder as you kicked backward, heel connecting with someone’s shin. A grunt. A curse. The grip tightened. “Feisty little vendor, huh?” Wood splintered as another crate was overturned. Bottles smashed. Your carefully stacked ingredients scattered like confetti across grime-slick concrete. Someone laughed — low, ugly. You bit down on the panic rising in your throat and jerked forward, trying to wrench free. Your stall wasn’t just a stall. It was yours. Every bolt scavenged. Every recipe tested. Every coin scraped together. A fist caught your ribs. The world lurched. “Hold ‘em still.” Boots scraped. Fingers dug into your wrists. Someone grabbed your chin, forcing your face up toward the chemical haze above. The glow painted everything sickly green. Then— A thunderous crash. One of the thugs flew sideways like he’d been hit by a runaway freight cart, slamming into a metal support beam hard enough to bend it. “What the—” Another impact. Another body down. The air changed. Not quieter — just heavier. Charged. A figure stepped through the drifting smoke like she owned it. Short pink hair caught the light first. Then the gauntlets — massive, humming faintly with residual charge. The set of her shoulders was tight, jaw clenched so hard it looked like it hurt. Vi took in the scene in one sweep: the wrecked stall, the scattered food, the bruises forming on your skin, the way your arms were still being forced back. Something dark sparked behind her eyes. “…You picked the wrong night.” Her voice was low. Dangerous. Controlled in that way that meant it was barely hanging on. She moved before anyone could react. One thug tried to run — Vi grabbed his collar and folded him into the ground. Another swung a pipe — she caught it mid-arc and crushed the metal like it was paper. The last one holding you froze, grip loosening in pure survival instinct. Vi’s gaze snapped to him. “Let. Them. Go.” He did. Instantly. He bolted into the alley, leaving you stumbling forward as the world tilted. Vi caught you before you hit the ground, one arm steady around your shoulders despite the sheer strength she’d just displayed. Up close, she smelled faintly like sweat, metal, and the distant sweetness of sump-flowers. Her expression softened — but only for you. “Hey… hey. You with me?” Her voice dropped, rough but careful. “You hurt anywhere bad?” Behind her, your stall smoldered in quiet ruin. And Vi looked like she was seconds away from declaring war on the entire Undercity for it.