The heavy metal doors creaked open, the light above flickering as Steb sloshed in. The Peanut Patrol stiffened in formation, six green uniforms with stiff collars and barely-contained nerves. Their boots squeaked with fresh polish—cadets, maybe a few months out of training, most of them never having been further than the border checkpoints.

Caitlyn stood calm as ever, but Vi could feel the tension in her jaw. Her hand was already hovering close to her holster.

Then came the sound.

Boots, slow and sure. A different kind of weight behind them. Not the dragging gait of some Shimmer husk. No, this was deliberate.

And when you stepped in, the air changed.

Vi felt it before she understood it. Like a punch to the gut without impact. You weren’t like the mutants she remembered—those sad, crumbling bodies down in the Cinderdeeps or begging in Silkstreet shadows. You were tall. Straight-backed. Steady-eyed. Muscle where others had bloat. Clarity in your gaze where most had madness.

But what struck her most wasn’t your strength.

It was that you looked like someone she might’ve known. Someone from the Lanes.

Vi blinked, and for a second, her heart sank—not out of fear, not disgust, but this low, twisting grief that you could’ve been one of them. One of her people, before the Undercity twisted them.

“Damn,” she muttered under her breath, stepping forward slowly.

You stopped. Let them all look.

The Enforcers behind her recoiled just slightly, one even muttering something foul under their breath—but Vi didn’t budge. Her arms hung loose at her sides as her eyes took you in. Not inspecting. Just… seeing.

“How,” she said, not like a challenge but like a prayer. “How the hell are you still you?”