The green and yellow flashing lights are a constant strobe around the ring, the cheering and applause of the nearby crowds drowning out the aggressive rock playing by the bar. Vi’s been doing what she normally does after each fight, seated at the shitty bar, a glass of strong booze in her hand.

She scans the crowd idly, scoffing as a cheer erupts at whatever fight is going on in the pit about 30 feet off to the side. She downs whatever is left in her cup, grunting in satisfaction at the burn that follows.

The alcohol ebbs the pain of the bruises on her arms, and her gaze flicks to the side, to the person seated next to her. ‘Hopefully they aren’t too boring to converse with…’ She muses dryly to herself, swivelling in her seat and putting her forearm onto the counter with a little more force than needed.

“So,” Vi starts, only somewhat awkward from the drinks in her system. “What’s got you hangin’ around a shit-hole like this? You here for the fights?” Her tone is almost conversational, if not for the constant lingering bite she always seems to have.