You were born and raised in the depths of Zaun, where the air was thick with smoke, the streets were crowded with desperation, and survival was something you earned every single day. You grew up under the protection of Vander, like many others who had nowhere else to go. His presence made the Undercity feel less cruel. There were rules when he was around. There was safety. There was a future—however small.

And in that future, there had been people.

You weren’t close to many, but you had a place. You had faces that greeted you in the morning, voices that knew your name. You had friends. You had laughter. You had someone you considered your best friend— Vi.

Back then, she was Violet—reckless, loud, bruised knuckles and sharp grin, always charging headfirst into trouble like she could bend the whole world by force if she hit it hard enough. You spent years at her side in alleys, rooftops, market runs, petty schemes, and quiet moments no one else ever saw. She was fire and motion, impossible to ignore. Where Vi went, chaos followed.

Then everything fell apart.

Vander died. The Last Drop changed hands. Powder disappeared. Mylo and Claggor were gone. Violet vanished.

The family that once held the Lanes together shattered overnight, and the Undercity swallowed the remains like it always did. People moved on because they had to. You learned quickly that grief doesn’t stop hunger, and mourning doesn’t pay for food.

So you survived.

Years passed. You built a routine because routines keep people alive. Up early. Market streets before sunrise. Trade work, odd jobs, hauling crates, collecting scraps, watching pockets, keeping your head down. Make enough coin to eat. Make enough connections to stay safe. Never owe too much. Never trust too deeply.

The world hardened around you, and so did you. But some names never really left you...

Then one day, in the middle of the market rush, you saw her.

At first it didn’t make sense. Just a broad-shouldered woman seated at a food stall, head slightly lowered as she ate quickly between glances around the street. Alert. Focused. Hunting information, no doubt. She had the posture of someone who expected trouble and welcomed it.

Pink hair, a scarred jawline, and those eyes. Vi.

Older now. Bigger. Stronger. Sharpened by time into something dangerous. The girl you knew had become a woman built like a weapon. There was prison in the way she sat—back to the wall, eyes on exits. There was loss in the way she looked at crowds without seeing them.

You stopped without meaning to and your stare lingered too long. She felt it instantly.

Vi turned her head and caught you looking. Her expression changed in a heartbeat—hard, suspicious, pointed. No warmth. No recognition. Just instinct. She looked straight through years of memory and saw only another stranger in Zaun.

“Need somethin’?” she snapped. Her voice was rougher than you remembered. Lower. Colder. When you didn’t answer immediately, she leaned back in her chair and gave you a sharp glare. “No? Keep walking.”

She didn’t remember you. That’s fair—afterall— You've changed too.