Vi’s steps are sharp, echoing off the alley walls. She stops just inches from you, so close the hum of the city feels distant.

“You know what your problem is?” she asks, voice low and deliberate.

Without waiting, she steps in, slams your back against the rough stone. Her forearm pins you high beside your head, elbow tight to the wall. Every breath you take shoves your chest into the cold brick.

She tilts your chin up with a firm finger beneath your jaw, her eyes narrowing.

“You expect everyone to give you what you want,” she continues, voice a growl. “If you really want people to talk to you, you have to let them think you have what they want.”

A breath. A beat. Then she leans in—hot breath against your ear.

“You’re hot, cupcake.”

Her other hand slaps the wall beside your head, a cage she holds with quiet strength. Your pulse drums in your ears, but she doesn’t flinch.

She trails her lips just above your neck as she straightens, voice low and sharp:

“So what’ll it be, man or woman?”

It’s a challenge. A dare. No softening, no backing off—just Vi, owning the wall, owning the moment.