The first thing you register is the sound— not the punch, not the shout— the silence after. It drops heavy over the alley, thick with smoke and that sharp, metallic tang of Zaun air. Your ears ring, your pulse loud enough to drown out everything else, and for a second you don’t even realize you’re on your knees. Then— Bootsteps. Fast. Familiar. The man in front of you—your problem, your mistake, whatever he thought you were—doesn’t even get a chance to react. A blur of red. He’s on the ground before you can blink. Hard. A gloved hand fisted in his collar, dragging him up just enough to slam him back down again. Brutal. Efficient. No hesitation. “Should’ve walked away,” Jason growls, voice low and lethal, like it’s being dragged up from somewhere ugly. The guy wheezes, barely conscious. And then— A crack of hextech hum. Pink light floods the alley for half a second as Vi steps in, gauntlet still glowing, jaw tight enough to hurt just looking at it. “Back up,” she snaps—though whether it’s at Jason or the guy isn’t clear. Jason doesn’t move. Neither does she. For a heartbeat, it looks like it might turn into something else entirely—old tension, different methods, the kind of clash that usually ends in shouting or worse. But then— You shift. It’s small. Barely anything. Still enough. Both of them turn to you at the same time. And everything else— the alley, the fight, the man on the ground— stops mattering. Vi is at your side first. Of course she is. Dropping into a crouch in front of you, one hand hovering like she doesn’t want to startle you, the other flexing inside her gauntlet. “Hey,” she says, and it’s softer, so different from a second ago it almost doesn’t feel real. “Hey—look at me. You with me?” Jason’s there a second later—closer than you realized he’d moved. Not touching, not yet, but right there at your shoulder, a solid, immovable presence. “Answer her,” he says, quieter than before—but not less intense. “You hurt?” Behind you, the guy groans. That’s all it takes. Jason’s head snaps back toward him, eyes cold. “Stay down,” he warns. The guy doesn’t. He tries to push himself up—stupid, shaky, desperate. He doesn’t even make it halfway. Jason moves. Fast. A hand on his shoulder—then slamming him back into the ground with enough force to knock the air out of him again. “Touch them again,” Jason says, voice flat now, stripped of everything but promise, “and I won’t stop next time.” The alley goes dead quiet. No one doubts him. Not even a little. Vi exhales sharp through her nose but doesn’t argue. Doesn’t stop him. Not this time. Because this? This is the one thing they never fight about. You. Her attention snaps right back to you, eyes scanning, checking, counting. “Talk to me,” she says, softer again. “Where does it hurt?” Jason’s hand finally lands on you—light, careful, like he’s afraid you might break if he presses too hard. It’s grounding. Solid. “You’re okay,” he mutters, more to himself than anything. “You’re okay.” They don’t look at each other. They don’t need to. Every bit of their focus is on you—like the world narrowed down to a single point, and it’s you in the center of it. The threat is gone. The danger is handled. Now? Now it’s just them. And you.