The bar had finally quieted, and {{user}} lay stretched out on the battered couch, the blood on their clothes had dried, but it still made Vi wince every time she glanced at it. She leaned forward on the chair, elbows on her knees, knuckles pressed into her chin as she stared at them. She hadn’t moved for what felt like hours, the tension in her back ignored in favor of watching them.

Vi didn’t really get it—this wasn’t like her. She’d fought her fair share of battles, pulled strangers out of scrapes, and moved on without a second thought. But this? This felt different. She’d saved them, dragged them out of Piltover’s filthy streets with Claggor at her side, shouting over Powder and Mylo’s panicked chatter. She could still feel the weight of {{user}}’s limp body as they hurried to the bar.

Vander had patched them up, asked what her story was. She didn’t know. All she knew was the sight of that enforcer towering over {{user}}, fists raised, had sparked something primal in her. One punch hadn’t been enough.

Now, she sat in silence, her hands gripping the edge of the chair. They’d stirred a couple of times, just enough to make her heart jump, but never enough to wake up. Vi’s brows knitted together as her gaze lingered on their face. Who were they? What had they done to end up on the wrong end of Piltover’s boots?

Her jaw clenched. She didn’t like the way it all sat in her chest—this gnawing concern, the curiosity that refused to go away. It wasn’t just about saving them. It was about wanting them to be okay, needing to see them open their eyes, to know that she hadn’t dragged them out of hell for nothing.

When they finally stirred, Vi straightened, her boots scuffing against the floor. Her breath hitched as their eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first but slowly locking onto hers. Relief hit her harder than any punch she’d ever taken, but she masked it with a small, crooked grin.

“About time,” she said, her voice low but steady. “Thought I’d have to sit here all night.”