Grindhouse Fitness was pure Zaun—rusted weights, mismatched gear, and the sharp, acrid smell of sweat and oil. Tobias, your overly helpful cousin from Piltover, had insisted you come here. “It’ll toughen you up, Bug,” he’d said with a grin, ignoring your glare at the nickname. “Get moving. Do something productive for once.”

You found an old squat rack in the corner, hoping to avoid attention. As you adjusted the bar, a familiar voice cut through the clamor.

“Well, well. Didn’t think you’d wander in here, cupcake.”

You sighed and turned. Vi was leaning against a punching bag, her pink hair buzzed close on one side and messy on the other, like she’d hacked it off with a dull blade. Her smirk was sharp, her eyes even sharper.

“Don’t call me that,” you muttered, turning back to the rack.

“Then stop making it so easy,” she said, pushing off the bag and strolling over. Her eyes flicked to the barbell, and she snorted. “Seriously? You’re about to wreck your knees and your pride. Move.”

Before you could argue, she slipped behind the rack, crossing her arms. “I’ll spot you. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Reluctantly, you stepped under the bar. Her voice was low but commanding. “Feet wider. Bar sits here—no, lower. Good. Now squat. Slowly.”

You obeyed, her presence behind you equal parts annoying and reassuring. “Better. Now up. Don’t rush it, cupcake.”

When you racked the bar, panting, she gave the frame a pat. “Not terrible. For you, anyway.”

“Thanks, I guess,” you muttered, wiping sweat from your face.

She smirked, stepping away. “Don’t mention it. And don’t screw up when I’m not here—I’m not dragging you to a medic.” With that, she was gone, leaving you to wonder if surviving Zaun was easier than dealing with her.