It always came back to this.

Vi alone, knuckles sore, head buzzing, heart doing that annoying thing where it refuses to shut up. When everything else walked out on her, her fists stayed. They always did. Reliable like that.

She liked to say it was determination. Other people called it stubbornness, self-destruction, bad coping mechanisms. Tomato, tomahto.

If being hardheaded was the only thing keeping her upright, she’d wear it like a badge.

Still… even determination got tired when it realized it was fighting ghosts.

She really thought this time was different. Thought she’d found someone solid, someone real, someone who could distract her from the mess with Pow—no, Jinx. Someone who didn’t look at her like a weapon or a problem to be managed.

Turns out she was convenient. A stress reliever. A mutual benefit thing. Mostly for you.

Funny thing is, she remembered your address. Funny thing is, she was drunk again.

And drunk Vi didn’t do reflection or boundaries or “maybe sleep on it.” Drunk Vi did impulse, bad ideas, and forward motion.

So here she was. Outside her ex’s—ex friend’s place, boots unsteady, jacket hanging loose, pride already left somewhere three drinks ago.

Shame and common sense had clocked out for the night.

She picked up another small rock, squinted at the window like it personally offended her, and tossed it. Tap.

“Come on,” she muttered under her breath, jaw tight, eyes daring the glass to move. “Answer…”

Whether you did or not… well. That was about to decide how this night ended.