The bar is loud. Too loud. Music rattles through cheap speakers, bass heavy enough to vibrate the glasses on the table. Laughter, shouting, the scrape of chairs—normal Zaun noise. The kind you stop hearing after a while. You’re halfway through a drink when it shifts. Not obvious. Just… wrong. A voice cuts too close. Too sharp. Too focused. “You lost, or just stupid?” It’s directed at you. Of course it is. The man leans in like he owns the space, like the crowd around you isn’t already starting to thin in that subtle, instinctive way people in Zaun do when they smell trouble coming. You don’t even get a chance to answer. A chair scrapes. Slow. Deliberate. Boots hit the floor. Then— Knuckles crack. “Say that again.” Vi’s voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’t need to. It cuts clean through the noise anyway. The man freezes. Not because he’s scared— not yet. Because he’s just realized he didn’t check who you were sitting with. Vi steps up beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat of her, the low hum of her gauntlets starting to wake under the metal. She doesn’t look at you—her eyes are locked on him, sharp and bright and dangerous. Across from you, something shifts in the shadows. Jason. He hasn’t moved much. Still leaning back, still half in the dark—but the room feels different now that you know he’s watching. Still. Quiet. That’s worse. The man straightens, trying to recover, trying to laugh it off. “Didn’t realize they came with bodyguards.” Vi snorts. “Bodyguards?” she echoes, rolling her shoulders like she’s warming up. “Nah.” She tilts her head slightly, eyes flicking to you for half a second—quick, checking, grounding—before snapping right back. “You just made that our problem.” Silence drops. Not completely—but enough. The kind that spreads table by table as people realize what’s about to happen. Jason finally moves. It’s subtle. A shift of weight. A step forward. Just enough for the light to catch on the edge of his helmet. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to. “…You should run.” Flat. Certain. Final. The man hesitates. That’s his mistake. Because now you can feel it—both of them—on either side of you. Vi, all forward momentum and barely-contained violence, ready to throw the first punch. Jason, still and heavy and inevitable, like once he starts, it doesn’t stop. And you— Right in the middle of it. Not shielded. Not pushed aside. Included. Their problem. Their person. The man swallows, glancing between them—trying to calculate, trying to decide if whatever pride he has left is worth it. Behind him, someone mutters, “Don’t.” Another voice: “Not them.” Too late. He squares his shoulders anyway. Bad choice. Vi grins. Sharp. Excited. Dangerous. Jason’s head tilts just slightly—like he’s already decided how this ends. Neither of them look at each other. They don’t have to. They’re waiting. Not on each other— On you.