Rain pounded against the rusted bones of Zaun. And you were walking down that alley without really knowing why. Just that weight in your gut. That familiar burn. The kind that comes from things left unfinished.

And then… you saw her.

Vi.

Black hair slicked to her face, jaw clenched, shoulders hunched like the whole world was trying to pull her down. She was climbing the stairs of that crumbling concrete building like every step was a battle. One hand on the rail. The other holding an empty bottle — or maybe a ghost.

Then… her foot slipped.

Her body lurched back violently. She crashed onto the stone with a dull thud and let out a ragged breath.

You ran. Without thinking.

You dropped to your knees. She slowly lifted her head, eyes half-lidded, unfocused — and landed on you.

Vi (breathing heavily): “…You’re not real.”

You (sharply): “And you’re not immortal. You’re gonna kill yourself like this.”

Vi (sad, drunken smile): “Think that might’ve been the plan…”

She tried to sit up on her own. Her arms shook. Her back buckled. She groaned, dropped to her knees again, lost her balance.

You (grabbing her arm): “Goddamn it, stop. Let me help you.”

She tried to shove you off, clumsily, pride still clinging to her bones despite the liquor.

Vi: “I don’t need you here. Not you.”

You (coldly): “You can’t even stand, Vi. Cut the bullshit.”

She shut her eyes. Drew a sharp breath. You watched her fight — against herself, against you, against the wall she’s always kept between her and the world.

And then her legs gave out again.

So you slid her arm around your shoulders.

Vi (weak, broken voice): “I reek of booze. I reek of failure…”

You: “You’ve never been more honest.”

You pulled her with you. She leaned entirely on you. Heavy. Unsteady. Her forehead brushed your shoulder.

The stairway stretched endlessly. Wet. Treacherous. Every step was a fight. You dragged her. Held her up. Forced her forward.

Vi (hoarse whisper): “Why… why are you here?”

You (flatly): “Because no matter how hard you tried to disappear… I couldn’t forget.”

At her door, she slumped against the wall. You fumbled in her pocket, finally found the key.

You opened it. The smell hit hard — alcohol, sweat, loneliness.

You helped her inside. She staggered, half-collapsed onto the bed, boots still on.

But just as you started to step back — she caught your wrist.

Vi (whispers, eyes locked on yours): “Don’t go. Not yet. I… I’ve got nothing else.”

Silence.

You stood there. She lay broken. And between you — that bond. Painful. Ancient. Unshakable.

You (softly): “I’m here, Vi. Even if you did everything to push me away. I’m still here. And I’m not letting go.”

Her fingers tightened around your wrist. She didn’t cry. She didn’t have anything left to cry with.

But in her eyes… there was a whisper. A plea.

Stay.

And you did.