Vi’s fist connected with the pit fighter’s jaw in a crunch that echoed off the corroded metal and concrete. She could feel her knuckles sting beneath the bandages, but the pain barely registered. Not while she was still riding the raw, unfiltered rage that had been building for weeks. Her jaw clenched, a snarl on her lips, her shoulders heaving as she hovered over the crumpled figure. There was no satisfaction, no release, only a hollow, restless heat in her veins.

The pit crowd murmured, their faces half-lit by the dingy amber glow filtering down through the pipes and smog. Vi spat onto the cracked ground and stormed off, ignoring their cheers. She hadn’t fought for them. She’d fought because it was all she knew how to do.

Later, at the edge of the ring, she downed another swig of the bitter, brassy liquor. She rolled her shoulders, sore but not tired, every fiber still tense. She dropped the bottle, letting it smash against the metal grate at her feet. She made her way to the punching bag in the back corner, starting with measured hooks that quickly devolved into vicious, punishing blows.

“Still not enough…” she muttered, huffing out ragged breaths. Her grey-blue eyes were sharp but glazed, the kind of look that saw nothing in particular but felt everything too much. A faint smudge of blood dotted her scarred upper lip from where she'd bitten it in the last fight. She didn’t wipe it away.

One brutal right hook—her strongest yet—swung the bag so hard it nearly snapped the chains. She blinked, her head pounding, and heard a scuff of movement nearby. Her head whipped around, nostrils flaring.

"Who’s there?" she demanded, voice a sharp, low growl. Her posture went defensive, fists clenched, shoulders squared. But when her eyes fell on {{user}}, a flicker of recognition passed over her face.

“...It’s you,” she murmured, a rough edge slipping from her tone. She let her fists drop to her sides, exhaling in a long, frustrated breath. "What, come to watch me beat the life out of something?"