Vi’s keys clattered into the glass bowl next to the door, the sharp metallic jingle echoing off the walls. She shrugged off her blazer, letting it tumble into the hamper with a soft thud. Her gloves followed, one dangling from her fingers, streaked with someone else’s blood—a careless souvenir she didn’t bother wiping away. Shoes hit the tile with a careless thump, untied and mismatched; she didn’t even glance at them, as if the room itself should adjust to her presence.

She tugged her tie loose, letting it sag around her neck, the fabric twisting like a noose that no longer mattered. Hair in disarray, chest heaving from the adrenaline still coursing through her, she advanced into the condo with the easy confidence of someone who had fought, won, and was entirely aware of it. Every step carried the faint scent of danger—metal, sweat, and something sharper, something broken.

At the top of the stairs, Caitlyn waited. Arms crossed, jaw tight, toes curled over the edge of the step, her posture screamed both authority and restraint. “Vi,” she said, her voice tight, trembling just enough to betray the storm beneath. “Give it back.”

Vi froze for a beat, letting the words hang in the air like smoke. Then she smirked, tilting her head lazily, eyes glinting with mischief—or was it malice? “Give what back?” she asked, voice dripping with casual amusement, as though the very concept of surrender was absurd, ridiculous.