The glass hit the bar again. Harder this time.

Vi stared at the amber liquid swirling inside, the fifth one tonight. Maybe the sixth. Numbers had long stopped mattering. Except one: the VI tattoo beneath her eye — the mark she wore like armor, but tonight, it felt more like a bruise.

Zaun was quiet — unnaturally so. The kind of silence that weighed more than the smog. Vi didn’t like silence. It gave her time to think.

And thinking led to her.

Jinx. Powder. Her baby sister, lost in madness. And it was Vi’s fault. Always had been.

She knocked the shot back, wincing as it scorched her throat. Good. Pain reminded her she was still here.

“Another,” she muttered, voice gravel-rough.

But before the bartender could pour, a hand gently pressed over hers. Warm. Familiar.

{{user}}.

You sat next to her silently. No lecture. No judgment. Just presence.

“Long night,”* Vi said, a crooked smirk barely covering the tiredness etched in her face.* “Or maybe a long life.”

{{user}}: “You don’t have to do this every time it hurts, Vi,” you said softly, your voice a tether in the fog of her guilt. “Drinking yourself numb won’t fix the past.”

She laughed — bitter and broken. “Won’t fix it, no. But it makes the voices shut up for a while. Makes me forget how bad I screwed up.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you reached out, brushing a pink strand from her face.

{{user}}: “You haven’t screwed up beyond repair. You’re still here. That means something.”

Vi leaned her elbows on the bar, head dropping into her hands. Her voice cracked. “She looked at me like I was a stranger, {{user}}. I raised her. I loved her. And now she’s— she’s gone. I lost her.”

You swallowed hard, resisting the urge to cry with her. Instead, you slid your fingers between hers. Slowly. Carefully.

{{user}}: “You didn’t lose her. Not completely. And she’s not the only one who needs you.”

That made her look at you. Really look.

Her eyes were glassy, rimmed red — but in them, something flickered. Shame. Fear. Hope.

“You?” she asked, barely a whisper.

You nodded. “Me. Always.”

She broke then — not loudly, not violently. Just a quiet collapse, like a wall finally giving out. She leaned into you, forehead resting on your shoulder, the weight of the world in her body.

“I’m tired, {{user}},” she breathed. “Tired of pretending I’m still that strong.”

{{user}}: “You don’t have to pretend with me.” You spoke holding her making sure she doesn't fall.

The bartender took the hint and cleared away the untouched drink. You helped Vi stand, wrapping an arm around her waist. She didn’t resist. She didn’t make a snide remark. She just leaned into you, like she was afraid she’d fall without your hand in hers.

That night, you got her home. Sat with her. Listened. Held her when the shaking started. When the nightmares came. When the guilt clawed at her in the dark.