The morning light in Zaun was hardly romantic — dim, diluted by smog and steel, struggling to break through the grime-streaked windows of your small, fourth-floor walk-up. But to you, it was perfect. Not because it was beautiful, but because it meant Vi would be home soon.

You rocked your baby gently against your chest, humming a soft tune passed down from your grandmother, worn and frayed like the sleeves of your nightshirt. The apartment was quiet, save for the occasional creak of pipes and the soft breaths of the little one in your arms. The city was always loud, but somehow, inside your tiny home, peace managed to carve out a place.

The front door clicked open—quietly, so as not to wake the baby. “Babe?” came Vi’s voice, low and cautious. You could hear the exhaustion hidden beneath her usual cocky tone.

“In the living room,” you whispered.

A moment later, she stepped in. Vi looked like hell. Her pink hair was matted with sweat, the grey tank under her patched-up overalls clinging to her skin. A long smudge of grease ran along her jaw, and her knuckles were bruised and bandaged—again. She must've gotten into it with a malfunctioning automaton or another mouthy coworker. You'd ask later. For now, you just smiled.

She smiled back, lopsided and sheepish. “Hey,” she said, and dropped to her knees beside the couch. “Gods, I missed you two.”