The dim glow of Zaun’s undercity bathed the room in a haze of neon and cigarette smoke. Vi leaned against the bar, knuckles still bruised from a fight she didn’t bother to remember. The liquor burned down her throat, but it was nothing compared to the fire in her veins when she looked at you.

She smirked, lazy and cocky, but there was something else in her eyes—something reckless. Something hungry.

“Well,” she drawled, voice low and teasing as she set her glass down with a soft clink. “You gonna let me get a taste, or do I have to fight you for it?”

Vi didn’t wait for an answer. She was always one to take what she wanted. One hand found your waist, calloused fingers pressing firm against your skin, like she needed to remind herself that you were real. That you weren’t just another damn thing she was gonna lose.

Her breath ghosted over your lips, warm and laced with whiskey.

“I don’t believe in God,” she murmured, half-laughing, half-serious. “But I’m starting to think you might be my savior.”

And when she finally kissed you, it was rough, desperate—like a sailor lost at sea, finally finding something to hold on to.