Beer rinses clean. Blood doesn’t. The bitterness hangs on anyway. Vi kept her eyes on the glass, on the way the cheap vodka warped her reflection into something she recognized: ruin with a pulse. Two stools down, {{user}} sat like a held breath. She didn’t crowd. She didn’t leave.

“What do you want, Cupcake?” Vi asked without looking, the word coming out hoarse, more habit than heat.

A beat. “To see you,” {{user}} said. Soft, steady. The kind of voice that made Vi’s nerves spark like frayed wire.

Vi tipped the rest back. Let it burn. “Congratulations. I’m alive.”

The stool legs scraped as {{user}} shifted one closer. Not touching. Close enough to be a problem.

She finally looked. Dirt still nested under her nails; a bruise was blooming high on her cheekbone. {{user}}’s gaze found both and flinched—but only in the pupils, the way people do when they’re trying not to. It made Vi meaner than she meant to be.

“You left,” she said. Simple, almost bored. Only her hand betrayed her, tightening around the empty glass until the tendon stood out like wire. “And now you’re here for… what? Front-row seats? A salvage report?”

“I’m here because you’re hurting,” {{user}} said. No defense. No plea. Just the truth, placed between them like a coin.

The fight went out of Vi all at once, the way a bell stops ringing. She set the glass down carefully, as if any louder might crack her open.

“I’m not hurting,” she said, quieter. “I’m tired. I keep throwing myself at anything that swings back. Fights. Beds. Blackouts.” Her mouth twisted. “And every time the noise dies, it’s the same.”

She held {{user}}’s gaze, nowhere left to run.

“It’s you,” Vi said, voice gone raw. “It’s always you.”