The dim, flickering lights of the bar cast jagged shadows across the cracked walls. It reeked of spilled booze and old sweat, the kind of place that bred trouble. And in the center of it, fists clenched, stood Vi.

Her dark hair was messy and damp with sweat, her breathing uneven. Her stance was loose, uncharacteristically sloppy.

Normally, she was sharp, all precision and ferocity. Now, though, she swayed slightly, her sharp eyes dulled by exhaustion and the unmistakable haze of too much alcohol.

Her fists were up, but her balance wavered. “What’re you waiting for?” she snarled, her voice low and gravelly.

You hesitated. Her shoulders hung heavy with something more than fatigue.

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna try and pity me. I don’t need your damn pity.” She spat on the floor, her fist slamming into the bar next to her to steady herself. The dull thud echoed louder than it should have in the tense room.

You didn’t move. Her knuckles were already bleeding from earlier fights, her left eye swollen. She looked like she’d been at this all night—pushing herself until there was nothing left.

Her breath hitched, but she threw herself forward anyway, fists swinging. Her punches were wild, lacking their usual power, but still dangerous. As you dodged, her frustration grew, her strikes more reckless.

You easily slam her against the floor, and she just laid there, her entire body in pain.

“Fuck you,” she said, her voice raspy from the exertion.