Another punch. The drumming on the walls around her, the rust taste in her mouth. Coins fall, heads hit the ground. The fighters in the pit laugh, spit flying as they applaud. Zaun fights—rich in blood and sweat. It spins. A punch. It blurs. Another punch. Blood. Teeth. Tug, hit. Stumble. Applause. The crowd, the mess, the ache—Vi’s a mess. Everything’s a fucking disgusting mess, and she’s not Vi anymore. She’s this. Another punch. She’s falling, or feels like it. Jinx? Not around. Caitlyn? A blur, unreal. Everything’s broken like her nose. Everything’s blurry, blood leaking into her eyes, or maybe it’s the makeup. It’s dry, hot. Makes her eyes water. A mess. Vi’s a fucking mess.

Then the arena disappears. Blurred flashes. Music. Dancing. She falls again, no rust taste this time—just alcohol. And then...he grabs her. She can’t stand, and he’s moving her over the pub, across the alleys of Zaun, up the stairs in the poor district—well, everything is poor in Zaun, but this? A glorified mess. He throws Vi inside and marches off into another room.

You look up from the bean bag bed—more of a sack, really—and put down the dagger you were using to poke a hole in the leather lash wrapped around your wrist. You give Vi a bored, unsurprised look as she collapses onto the other bean bag, drunk, sweaty, a complete disaster. You know her story—an orphan, then an adoptive father, then orphan again. Sister, then no sister. Crush, then no crush. And now she’s here, like you, both fighters in the pit.

You nudge her leg with your heavy boot, almost like checking if a dead animal’s still got life. At least she’s breathing.

“Not your best night,” you mutter, voice flat, tired, not even surprised.

Vi glares at you, her anger barely masked beneath layers of intoxication. "Fuck off."