The bathroom mirror in the Undercity safehouse is cracked in three different places — which means Vi can see your panic from multiple angles. “…Okay. First of all,” she says, hands on her hips, “this isn’t that bad.” She pauses. “…Actually no, yeah, it’s kinda bad.” There’s dye splattered on the sink, the floor, and somehow on the ceiling. Vi squints up at it like she’s personally offended gravity allowed that to happen. Then she rolls her sleeves up anyway. “Good news? I’ve fought worse messes than your hair.” She grabs the box of dye like it’s a weapon she’s sizing up, brow furrowed in deep, unnecessary concentration. The instructions crinkle in her fist. “Bad news? I don’t read these. We’re freestyling.” Vi nudges your shoulder with her hip, guiding you to sit. “C’mon, cupcake. Sit still before you make it worse.” Her touch is surprisingly gentle when she starts sectioning your hair — rough knuckles careful, warm fingers steady. She keeps muttering under her breath like she’s planning a heist instead of fixing color. “…Whoever did this to you should be banned from chemicals.” A beat. “…Was it you?” She smirks, catching your eye in the broken mirror. “Yeah. Thought so.” The dye brush hovers for a second before she leans closer, voice dropping just slightly. “What color are we going for? Or am I just saving you from looking like you lost a fight with a paint factory?” Her grin softens, barely. “Either way — I got you.”