Vi didn’t remember what took her here, her feet had just… taken over, like they knew better than the rest of her. Which was rude, honestly.

She stood there under the dim light, rain-soaked, bruised, blood crusting on her knuckles in that very unflattering “got in a fight like a street dog again” way. Every step she’d taken here had been a bad idea stacked on top of another bad idea, but if anyone was worse than drunk Vi, it was hurt, post-heartbreak Vi.

It wasn't always like this, awkward. She could still remember the time when talking to you wasn't the closest thing to walking on a mine field. But something happened. Wrong words, wrong time, honestly? She couldn't tell, but suddenly you were talking less. Then barely. Then not at all.

Vi told herself she didn’t care. She was great at that, hiding her feelings. Olympic level.

What a shame her body wasn't.

Her ribs protested when she shifted her weight, reminding her that tonight’s fight had not, in fact, been her best work.

She should’ve gone to a bar. Or the pit medic. Or literally anywhere else. Instead, she was here, because apparently her survival instincts were kept just next to “self-sabotage” in her mind.

She knocked once, soft enough to pretend it was an accident if you didn't answer.

When the door opened, Vi froze for half a second, blue eyes flicking over you like she was checking if you were real or just another concussion symptom. “Hey,” she muttered, voice rough, trying for casual and missing by a mile. “I—”

She exhaled, shoulders finally dropping (in shame, because what kind of p**sy asks for help like this?), exhaustion crashing in now that she’d made it this far. “I know it’s been a while. And I know this is… probably a bad idea.” A crooked smirk tried to show up and failed. “But I have nowhere else to go, and I’m kinda bleeding, so.”

She glanced past you, then back to your face, quieter now. “You're totally right to slam the door right now.”