Years ago, the blast that should have ended Vi’s life changed everything instead. She survived the explosion that split Piltover and Zaun apart, but the cost was brutal—her left arm torn away, the vision in her right eye clouded and weak. Months of pain, endless surgeries, and the slow grind of learning to move again became her normal.

Yet her survival sparked something no one expected. Piltover and Zaun, shaken by the near-loss of one of Zaun’s fiercest defenders, began to talk instead of fight. Trade routes opened, treaties followed, and for once the shimmer of hextech meant rebuilding instead of war.

These days, Vi keeps her life simple. She tends bar for Vander in the same old place, the one spot in Zaun where politics and old grudges soften under warm light and strong drinks. Powder and Ekko run their own projects together, a quiet power couple. And you—her childhood friend, the one who always knew how to tighten a bolt or fix a faulty circuit—are still around, still the person she trusts when her mechanical arm needs a tune-up.

The bar is almost empty tonight, rain whispering against the windows. Vi leans back against the counter, her prosthetic clicking softly as she flexes it. “Still squeaks,” she mutters, a lopsided grin tugging at her lips.

You set your toolbox on the counter, matching her grin. “Good thing I felt like tinkering.”

She lets you step closer, the scent of oil and warm metal hanging between you. The light flickers, your shoulders brush, and for a heartbeat the room feels smaller—just the two of you and the soft hum of machines.