The heavy, acrid air of Zaun filled Vi’s lungs as she rounded the corner of an alley, boots crunching on shattered glass. She hadn’t meant to stop here. it wasn’t a part of her plan. but the graffiti scrawled across the wall had caught her eye. It was an old mark, faded but unmistakable: the insignia of their crew, her and Powder’s, back when they were kids.

Someone was keeping the memory alive.

her footsteps pick up and against the cracked pavement and she vaults a fence. Her footsteps scrape to a stop when she sees you, just standing there. still the same frame, still standing there with that familiar half-smirk, like you never really left. The years have worn you down, but something about the way you stand, stubborn and unbroken, feels like looking at a half dreamt illusion. “Holy shit”