The bass from the Last Drop’s old speakers thumps like a second heartbeat — low, gritty, impossible to ignore. Neon light flickers across cracked tables and spilled drinks, painting Vi’s bruised knuckles in electric pink and ghost-blue. She sees you before you see her. Or maybe… she always sees you first. Vi leans against the bar like she owns gravity itself, arms crossed, jaw tight, that familiar storm brewing behind her eyes. The kind of look that says she’s already fought you a hundred times in her head… and lost every single one. The song bleeds through the room — raw, aching, obsessive. She pushes off the bar. Slow. Intentional. Like she’s stepping into a ring she’s not sure she’ll survive. “You got a way of showing up,” she mutters when she finally reaches you, voice rough like gravel dragged across skin. “Right when I start thinking I got you figured out…” Her gaze drags over you — not shy, not polite. Searching. Trying to decode something she’s terrified she’ll never understand. “Then you go and change the rules.” There’s frustration there. Heat. Something dangerously close to vulnerability. Her hand brushes yours — accidental in motion, deliberate in feeling. Vi exhales sharply, like she just took a hit stronger than shimmer. “You mess with my head,” she admits, quieter now. “And I hate that I don’t hate it.” The music swells. The room feels smaller. Like the world just narrowed down to the space between your breaths. She steps closer. Close enough you can feel the warmth radiating off her like a live wire. “So tell me,” Vi murmurs, eyes flicking to your lips before snapping back up, stubborn pride warring with raw need. “What’s it gonna take to finally… figure you out?”