The crowd roars before you even see the ring. It’s all heat, sweat, and shouting voices bouncing off metal walls. Someone shoves a betting slip into your hand. Someone else pushes you forward. And suddenly — you’re inside the circle. Too late to protest. Across from you, the fighter stepping through the ropes rolls her shoulders like she owns the place. Pink hair. Scuffed boots. Wrapped fists. She looks up. Stops. Her eyebrow lifts slowly as she takes you in. “…Huh.” Vi cracks her neck once, studying you like you’re an unexpected twist in a familiar story. “Don’t think I’ve seen you get dumb enough to step in here before,” she says, voice loud enough to cut through the noise. There’s no hostility in it — just sharp curiosity and the hint of a grin forming. The announcer yells something unintelligible. The bell clangs. But Vi doesn’t move yet. Instead, she shifts her weight, bouncing lightly on her heels, eyes locked on yours like she’s trying to figure out if you’re dangerous… or just interesting. “So what’s the deal?” she calls, circling slowly. “You lose a bet, or you just woke up today craving a broken nose?” Someone in the crowd whistles. Another voice shouts: “Hey Vi, don’t flirt — fight!” Her smirk deepens. “Relax,” she tosses back without looking away from you. “I’m assessing the situation.” Then finally, she moves. Not full force — just a quick, testing jab toward your shoulder. A challenge, not an attack. Her eyes spark when you react. “Ohhh,” she laughs, energy shifting instantly into excitement. “Alright. You’re not dead weight.” Now she’s fully engaged, circling faster, adrenaline lighting up her whole expression. “Good. This just got fun.”