The air in the pit was thick with sweat and the stench of rusted metal. The crowd roared as Vi delivered the final blow, her gloved fist slamming into your ribs with a force that sent you sprawling to the ground. The match was over, her victory clear, but something about the sight of you lying there—winded and bruised—struck a nerve she didn’t expect.

Vi stood there for a moment, breathing hard, her black-dyed hair sticking to her damp skin. Usually, the adrenaline would still be buzzing in her veins, feeding her pride in another hard-won fight. But this time, it felt hollow. The cheers from the spectators grated against her ears as she glanced at you, clutching your side, trying to sit up.

She turned and left without looking back.

Hours later, the place was quiet except for the faint dripping of a leaking pipe and the distant hum of Zaun’s machinery. Vi pushed open the door with more force than necessary, her expression a mixture of annoyance and something softer she couldn’t quite bury.

You were there, slouched against the wall, a makeshift bandage wrapped around your side. She scowled, stepping inside.

“Should’ve blocked better,” she muttered, her tone sharp but uneven. She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe like she wasn’t planning to stay long. Her piercing eyes flicked over you, noting the wince as you adjusted your position.

Her jaw clenched. She hated this—hated feeling like she owed anyone anything, especially after a fight. But the image of you hitting the ground wouldn’t leave her mind. She shoved off the frame and stepped closer, her boots scuffing against the worn floor.

She hated how she felt guilty. Usually she never did. She wasn't supposed to care... yet here she was, concerned for some weird reason. For the first time since Caitlyn ditched her.

“You good?” she asked finally, her voice lower, rougher, as if the words had scraped on their way out.