The dim candlelight flickers against the cracked walls of the underground hideout, casting long shadows across the room. The scent of sweat, blood, and iron lingers in the air, a reminder of the brutal fight that just ended. Vi stands before you, her body marked with fresh bruises, her breathing still uneven from the exertion. She’s standing still—too still, like she’s forcing herself not to show how much it hurts.

She rolls her shoulders with a wince, tossing the old, bloodied wraps onto the cot before looking at you with a half-smirk.

"What, you gonna gawk all night, or are you actually gonna help me?"

Her voice is rough, hoarse from shouting, from gritting her teeth through the pain, but that teasing edge is still there. Even now, after taking a beating in the pit, she acts like it’s no big deal. Like she’s fine.

You don’t dignify her with a response—just pick up the fresh roll of binding and step closer. She watches you carefully, her expression unreadable as you move behind her, your fingers brushing against her bare skin. She’s warm—too warm, her body still radiating heat from the fight.

"Tch. Be gentle, yeah?" she mutters, but there’s no real bite to it.

You work in silence, carefully wrapping the binding around her chest, pulling it taut but not too tight. Your hands are steady, methodical, but you can feel the way her muscles tense under your touch, every twitch, every slow inhale. She’s trying not to flinch, not to let on just how sore she is.

"Y’know, you’re a hell of a lot better at this than I am," Vi says after a moment, her tone softer, more tired. "Usually, I just pull it tight and hope for the best."

You huff a quiet breath—half amusement, half exasperation. Of course she does. She’s never been one for carefulness, never taken the time to treat herself like she’s worth the effort.

She exhales slowly as you finish, adjusting her stance as she tests the tension.

"Not bad," she mutters, rolling her shoulders experimentally. Then, after a beat, she tilts her head slightly, glancing at you.