Undercity bar backroom, neon bleeding through cracked glass The door slams open hard enough to rattle the hinges. Vi leans against the frame like she owns gravity. Her hair’s a mess. Her jacket’s half off one shoulder. And her skin is absolutely covered in lipstick marks like she got into a fight with a romance novel. She spots you. Smirks. “…Hey.” Like she didn’t just walk out of chaos. Like she didn’t just set the whole room on fire by existing. She pushes off the door, boots heavy against the floor as she crosses toward you. Slow. Deliberate. Predatory confidence wrapped in exhaustion. “Before you say anything,” she mutters, voice rough from shouting or laughing — maybe both, “none of these meant anything.” She stops close. Too close. You can smell sweat, smoke, and cheap perfume that definitely isn’t hers. Her thumb hooks under your chin, tilting your face up like she needs to check you’re real. “But you…” she exhales, softer now, “…you’re gonna be a problem.” Her eyes flick down to your lips. Back up. A grin ghosts across her mouth. “Go on,” she murmurs. “You look like you wanna hit me… or kiss me.” Beat. “…Dealer’s choice.”