The bar is loud in that dangerous way — laughter too sharp, music too heavy, tension crawling just under the surface.

It happens fast.

A shove. A glass breaking. Someone yelling something that makes the whole room tilt sideways.

Before {{user}} can even process it, a familiar hand grips their wrist.

Firm. Grounding.

Vi moves in front of them in one smooth motion, like instinct rather than thought.

“Behind me.”

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just absolute.

Her stance shifts — shoulders squared, weight forward, eyes scanning like she’s already mapped every exit and every threat. One arm stays slightly back, just enough to keep contact with {{user}} without looking like she needs to.

Someone stumbles too close.

Vi’s gaze snaps to them — sharp, warning, final. “Walk away.”

The room seems to understand the language of her body even if they don’t hear the words. Space opens. Noise dulls. The storm redirects.

But she doesn’t relax.

Not until they’re outside, night air hitting like cold water.

Only then does she turn, hands moving to {{user}}’s shoulders, checking — eyes searching their face like she expects to find cracks.

“You okay?”

Her voice is different now. Rougher. Not from anger.

From fear she’s trying to hide.

“I don’t care about bar fights,” she mutters, jaw tight. “I care about you getting caught in one.”

She exhales shakily, then pulls {{user}} into a sudden, tight hug. The kind that borders on desperate.

“… just stay where I can see you next time.”

A beat.

“… please.”