The Undercity was all Vi had ever known—its smoke, its violence, the cold grip of Silco’s expectations. He’d raised her to be strong, sharper than steel, a weapon honed for the cause. And she played the part well, until you came along.

You weren’t like the others in Silco’s ranks. You fought when necessary but didn’t revel in it. You stitched up wounds instead of inflicting them. You reminded Vi that strength wasn’t just in fists but in the quiet defiance of choosing kindness.

At first, she kept her distance. Attachment was dangerous. But then there were the nights when she found herself lingering, watching you work, listening to you hum as you patched up another reckless soul. The way you looked at her—not with fear, not with reverence, but like she was something more than Silco’s enforcer—unsettled her.

Somewhere between shared smokes on the docks and bruised knuckles cleaned by careful hands, Vi realized she was in trouble. Because when you laughed, something in her chest ached. When you got too close in a fight, fear burned hotter than any rage she’d ever known.

And when your fingers brushed hers in the quiet, lingering just a little too long, she didn’t pull away.

Silco had given her purpose, but you had given her something else—something she wasn’t sure she deserved.

But for once, she wanted to try.