In the heart of Novigrad, amidst flickering candles and whispered secrets, Viola, the famed courtesan of Passiflora, never expected to fall for a witcher. Yet something about him was different: the quiet way he observed her, the haunted calm in his golden eyes, the scarred hands that held surprising gentleness.

He came often, not for pleasure, but for peace. A place to rest from contracts, a haven from the weight of the Path. She teased him, talked with him, brought him wine, but the more they shared, the more her heart betrayed her profession. He listened, and he stayed.

“Stay the night,” she said once, voice softer than usual. “Not for coin. Just... stay.”

He looked at her, tired and cautious. “This life you lead... it's not meant for people like me.”

“Then maybe it’s time I chose a different life,” she whispered.

Viola began turning away patrons, telling Madame she needed space. She visited him after hunts with warm bread and wine, waiting outside brothels to catch him on his way out, not as a customer, but as something more. She longed for his embrace not out of payment, but out of want.

But the Path is never gentle. Rumors swirl, and others warn her: “Witchers don’t love. They leave.”

Still, she stays. Still, she tries. And one night, when he returns wounded and broken, she kneels beside him, tending to his wounds and saying quietly, “You don’t have to walk alone anymore.”

For the first time, he doesn’t argue. For the first time, he reaches for her hand.