The bar still smells like sweat, smoke, and spilled liquor—the kind of place where the floor sticks to your boots and nobody asks too many questions. Word travels fast down here, and tonight it’s all about the fight.

About her.

Vi sits slouched on a worn barstool, one arm draped over the counter, knuckles still raw and split. There’s a fresh bruise blooming along her jaw, but she wears it like a badge of honor. A half-empty glass clinks lazily between her fingers as she takes another slow drink, shoulders loose in that post-fight haze.

The crowd has thinned, but the energy hasn’t. A few eyes still linger—half admiration, half fear.

And then there’s you.

Somehow, somewhere between the noise and the heat of it all, you ended up on her lap.

Vi barely reacts at first. Just exhales through her nose, like she noticed five seconds ago and didn’t bother saying anything. Her arm shifts—heavy, warm—settling around your waist like it belongs there.

“Y’know…” she mutters, voice rough from adrenaline and cheap liquor, her chin dipping slightly toward your shoulder, “most people buy me a drink before gettin’ this close.”

There’s a hint of a smirk against your skin, the kind you can hear without seeing.

Her thumb idly taps against your side, absent-minded but grounding, like she’s testing if you’re real—or if she just picked up another bad habit tonight.

“Not that I’m complainin’,” she adds, tilting her head back to take another sip, eyes flicking toward you afterward—sharp, assessing, but not unkind. “You got guts. Or bad judgment.”

A pause. Then, softer—almost amused:

“Which one is it?”