Behind Blue Eyes

The morning light filtered through the grimy windows of The Last Drop, casting muted shadows across the bar. Vi worked in silence, her hands moving methodically as she restocked shelves with bottles of various sizes and colors. The clink of glass against wood was the only sound, a steady rhythm that suited her just fine. The ache behind her eyes was blessedly dull finally, kept at bay by the shimmer she’d reluctantly but mercilessly taken the night before. A temporary reprieve, though she knew it wouldn’t last. It never did.

The task was mundane, almost mechanical, but Vi welcomed it. It was something to focus on, something tangible she could control in the endless dark that had consumed her world. Her fingers traced the edges of bottles with practiced precision, brushing against smooth glass and cool metal caps as she arranged them in neat, orderly rows. She moved with purpose, her hands sweeping over the shelves to ensure everything was in its proper place. The familiar grooves of the wood beneath her fingertips grounded her, giving her something solid to hold on to when the void pressed too close.

She didn’t need her sight for this; she’d memorized every inch of the bar years ago. Each shelf, each bottle, each subtle imperfection in the counter, it was all etched into her mind through years of trial and error. A misplaced bottle or a shifted stool could throw her off balance, but here, at least, she knew what to expect. It was predictable, controlled, and in a life that felt increasingly out of her hands, she clung to that predictability with everything she had.

Sure, most of the time, The Last Drop felt like a cage. The walls were a constant reminder of what she’d lost, their rough texture under her fingertips as familiar as her own scars. A safe cage, but a cage nonetheless. She knew every sound that echoed within its walls; the creak of the floorboards, the hum of the neon sign above the door, the faint clatter of dishes in the back. It was home in the way a prison cell could be comforting, offering security at the cost of freedom.

She moved slowly, her steps careful and measured as she shifted from one shelf to the next. The faint scent of wood polish mixed with the lingering tang of spilled liquor filled the air, grounding her in the present even as her thoughts drifted. Her unseeing eyes, pale and distant, stared straight ahead, but her mind was far away. She wasn’t living her life, not really. Most days, she felt like a passenger, adrift in the darkness that had swallowed her whole twelve years ago. The world carried on around her, vibrant and full of color she could no longer see, while she remained trapped in this endless, claustrophobic void.

The shelves in front of her blurred into insignificance as she placed the final bottle down, her hand lingering on its cool surface. She exhaled slowly, the sound breaking the silence like a whisper in the dark. This was her life; a series of small, repetitive motions to fill the hours. She wasn’t sure if it was a comfort or a curse, but either way, it was all she had. And for the foreseeable future, she would make do, it’s not like she had any other options.

Once the shelves were stocked, Vi wiped her hands on her pants, the rough fabric absorbing the faint residue of dust and alcohol from the bottles. She rolled her shoulders, feeling the weight of the morning’s work settle into her muscles, and reached for the empty boxes stacked neatly at her side. They weren’t heavy, but their unwieldy shape forced her to shift her balance, the edge of one box brushing against her jaw as she adjusted them over her shoulder. Her fingers gripped the coarse cardboard, steady and firm, as she turned toward the back door.

The hinges creaked faintly as Vi pushed it open, her free hand trailing along the frame to guide her movements. The back room was dimly lit, the faint glow of a single bulb casting long shadows over the scattered crates and shelves lining the walls. The air here was cooler, carrying the faint scent of damp wood and discarded scraps from the kitchen. She moved with purpose, her boots scuffing against the worn floor as she navigated the familiar space by feel and sound alone.

Reaching the outside door, she pushed it open with her shoulder, the rusted hinges groaning in protest. A rush of cool air greeted her, brushing against her face and carrying with it the familiar metallic tang of Zaun’s streets. The shift in temperature was welcome, a sharp contrast to the stale warmth of the bar, and she inhaled deeply as she stepped outside.

The alley behind The Last Drop was cloaked in its usual gloom, the faint light from a nearby lamp casting uneven patches of brightness onto the cracked pavement. The hum of machinery filled the air, mingling with the occasional hiss of steam escaping from unseen pipes. In the background, the echo of hurried footsteps and muffled voices drifted through the Lanes, the ever-present soundtrack of life in Zaun.

Vi adjusted the boxes on her shoulder and moved toward the trash bins, her boots crunching against the ground. She dropped the boxes beside the bins with a dull thud, brushing her hands together to rid them of any lingering dust. She straightened up, letting the faint noise of the city wash over her. For a moment, it was just another quiet morning.

Then suddenly it wasn’t.

A woman’s voice, sharp and cutting, broke through the background noise like a blade slicing through fabric. “Get your hands off me,” she snapped, her tone dripping with anger but trembling at the edges.

Vi stilled, her breath catching as her head tilted toward the sound. A knot formed in her stomach, and her ears strained to catch every detail. A man’s voice followed, low and slick, his tone dripping with mockery. “Come on, sweetheart, don’t be like that. I’m just trying to be friendly.”

The words churned something hot and angry in Vi’s chest. Her jaw tightened, and she exhaled slowly, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. She didn’t need to see to picture what was happening, didn’t need to imagine the look of discomfort or fear on the woman’s face. The streets of Zaun were no stranger to situations like this, and Vi had spent enough years here to know how quickly things could escalate.

Her movements were quiet as she stepped away from the bins, her hand reaching out to graze the rough wooden exterior of the bar. The texture of the aged wood under her fingertips was grounding, guiding her steps as she made her way toward the voices. The closer she got, the clearer the scene became; the woman’s protests growing sharper, her words quick and clipped, while the man’s tone oozed confidence, the kind that came from knowing he had the upper hand.

Vi’s breaths were slow and measured, her focus narrowing as she closed the distance. The knot in her stomach hardened into a solid weight, but she didn’t let it slow her down. She wouldn’t stand by and let this happen; not here, not anywhere. Whatever was about to happen, she’d deal with it. She always did.

Vi’s fingers brushed the corner of the building, the rough wood guiding her steps as she turned into the alley. Her unseeing eyes narrowed, her head tilting slightly to catch the subtle shifts in the air and sound around her. “Hey!” she called out, her voice pointed and commanding, cutting through the tense air. “Why don’t you fuck off and find someone else to bother?”

The man turned toward her, and even before he spoke, Vi could hear the derision dripping from his laugh, the kind of arrogant mockery that had haunted these streets for as long as she could remember. “Well, well,” he drawled, his tone thick with condescension. “Look who decided to leave daddy’s safety. Go back inside, Vi. Me and sweet cheeks here were just having a friendly little chat.”

Vi’s lips curled into a smirk, though it was devoid of humor. Her stance shifted subtly, her weight settling evenly as she crossed her arms, her head tilting toward the sound of his voice. “Right, Deckard,” she replied, her tone laced with disgust. “And she was screaming in pleasure, I’m sure.”

The man’s footsteps crunched against the grit of the alley as he approached, the sound deliberate, taunting. His voice followed, dripping with amusement. “You’ve got some nerve, huh?”

“Nerve?” Vi shot back, her tone casual but laced with steel. “Nah, just common decency. Something you’ve clearly never picked up.”

The woman, sensing a glimmer of hope in Vi’s presence, attempted to step away from Deckard’s grip. Her movements were quick but hesitant, fear evident in the quick intake of her breath. But her hope was short-lived as Deckard’s hand shot out, his fingers clamping around her wrist with an audible snap. “You’re not going anywhere,” he sneered, his grip tightening as the woman gasped, her protests caught in her throat.

Vi’s smirk faded in an instant, replaced by a cold, unyielding seriousness. Her head tilted slightly, honing in on the sound of the woman’s struggles and Deckard’s sneer. “Let her go,” she said, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl.

Deckard laughed again, the sound grating and cruel. “I don’t think I will,” he said, his tone shifting into something darker, more threatening. “What are you gonna do, Vi? Stare off into the distance and hope I get scared? Or maybe you’re just a secret perv, standing there enjoying the show.”

Vi’s jaw tightened, the muscles in her face twitching as her fingers flexed at her sides. She took a slow, deliberate step forward, her voice low and laced with venom. “Deckard,” she growled, each syllable slicing through the air. “You’re still the same piece of shit you were when we were kids.”

“Easy there, Vi,” Deckard said, his tone mockingly placating, as if speaking to a child throwing a tantrum. “Wouldn’t want to get yourself hurt, now, would ya?”

Vi’s movements were subtle as she stepped closer, her hand grazing the wooden wall for orientation before dropping to her side, curling into a tight fist. Her unseeing eyes were steady, her voice calm but razor-sharp. “Funny,” she said with a smirk that didn’t reach her face, “I was about to say the same thing to you.”

Deckard’s grip on the woman faltered for a moment before he shoved her roughly to the side. She stumbled back with a gasp, her hurried footsteps echoing in the alley as she made her escape. Vi tilted her head slightly, listening to the sound of her retreating steps until they faded into the distance.

“Get outta here,” Vi called after her, her voice firm, unwavering. “I’ll handle this.”

Deckard’s laugh erupted again, this time harsher, more guttural, echoing off the narrow walls of the alley. “You? Handle me?” He stepped closer, the sound of his boots crunching against the grit growing louder. “This I gotta see. Ha—pun fucking intended.”

Vi smirked faintly, the sound of his words sharpening her focus. She shifted her stance, her feet grounding her as she turned her head toward the sound of his voice. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said coolly. “You’ll feel it when I do.”

The fight was swift and unorthodox, a brutal clash of desperation and instinct. Deckard’s arrogance worked in Vi’s favor; he underestimated her, just as she knew he would. His first swing was wide and clumsy, telegraphed by the rustle of his coat and the sharp exhale of his breath. Vi ducked under it, her body moving on muscle memory and sound alone. She pivoted on her heel, twisting her body as her fist drove into his ribs with a satisfying crack, the impact jarring her knuckles.

Deckard grunted, the air forced from his lungs, and stumbled back a step. The sound of his boots scraping against the gritty ground echoed in her ears. “You’ve still got fight in you,” he spat, his voice tinged with surprise and grudging respect. “But we aren’t kids anymore.”

“Guess you’ll learn the hard way,” Vi shot back, her voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through her veins. Her fingers flexed, her fists clenching tighter as she steadied herself.

Deckard lunged, and Vi caught the shift in his weight from the sound of his boots. She moved to dodge, but the alley was narrow, and his fist clipped her shoulder with a dull, sickening thud. The force knocked her back a step, a quick flare of pain radiating down her arm. She grit her teeth, swallowing the groan that threatened to escape, and retaliated immediately. Her fist shot out, connecting with his jaw in a vicious uppercut that sent his head snapping back.

The alley was alive with the sounds of their struggle; the grunt of impact, the scuff of boots grinding against the ground,the wet sound of skin meeting flesh. Vi’s world was narrowed to these sounds, her other senses heightened as she tracked Deckard’s movements. Her muscles moved on instinct, years of street brawls guiding her strikes. But Deckard was larger, stronger, and he didn’t fight fair.

He feinted to her left, the sound of his steps shifting too late for her to react. She felt the rough grip of his hand close around her arm, twisting it painfully as he slammed her against the wall. The unforgiving surface bit into her back, and a sharp gasp escaped her lips as pain flared along her spine. The alley reeked of oil and damp rot, the scents mixing with the metallic tang of blood she tasted in her mouth from biting her lip during the impact.

“You’re done,” Deckard sneered, his breath hot against her face, the stench of cheap alcohol and tobacco making her stomach churn.

Vi didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, she twisted her body sharply, ignoring the sharp pull in her arm as she drove her knee up into his stomach. The impact was brutal, her kneecap slamming into soft flesh, and Deckard let out a strangled sound as the air was knocked from his lungs. His grip loosened, and Vi didn’t hesitate. She wrenched her arm free, pivoting as she delivered a brutal punch to his temple.

The blow landed with a sickening thud, and Deckard staggered back, cursing as he struggled to regain his balance. Vi could hear the ragged edge to his breathing, the way he spit to the side, likely clearing blood from his mouth. “You’re tougher than I remember,” he rasped, his voice tinged with both pain and frustration. “But I’m done fucking around.”

His footsteps shifted, heavier and more deliberate, signaling he was gearing up for something worse. Vi’s fingers flexed, her fists aching but steady. She braced herself, her breath steadying despite the sharp sting radiating from her shoulder and the dull throb of her back.

“You should’ve backed off,” Vi muttered, her voice low and dangerous, every syllable laced with the promise of violence. Her heart pounded in her chest, the sound of it roaring in her ears as she braced herself for Deckard’s next move.

She caught the faint scrape of metal against leather, a knife. The realization sent a jolt of adrenaline through her veins, sharpening her focus. The weight of his shifting feet and the subtle shift in the air told her enough. She lunged forward, her movements swift and purposeful, her hand shooting out to grab his wrist. Her grip was firm, unrelenting, as she twisted sharply, feeling the tendons in his arm strain against her hold.

The knife clattered to the ground with a metallic echo, the sound loud and final. Deckard snarled, his breath hot and reeking, but Vi didn’t give him a chance to recover. She drove her fist into his face, the impact sending a sickening jolt through her arm as her knuckles connected with bone. His nose gave way with a wet crunch, and a spray of blood splattered against her fist.

He staggered back, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he hit the ground hard. The sound of his body collapsing onto the damp alley floor was almost satisfying. Vi stood over him, her chest heaving as she caught her breath, her head tilting slightly as she listened to his pained gasps.

“Still wanna dance, Deckard?” she asked, her voice steady, cold. Her fists clenched at her sides, blood, his and hers, dripping from her split knuckles.

Deckard coughed, choking on his own breath, and let out a low groan of defeat. He didn’t answer, his bravado shattered, leaving only the pathetic sounds of his pain.

Vi took a slow, deliberate step forward, her boots scuffing against the uneven ground. She crouched down, her fingers brushing against the air until they found the front of his shirt. She fisted the fabric and yanked him up slightly, her eyes narrowing as she leaned in close. The smell of blood, sweat, and fear filled her nose, the combination was nauseating.

“If I ever catch you pulling this shit again,” she growled, her voice low and menacing, every word dripping with venom, “you won’t walk away next time. Got it?”

Deckard nodded weakly, his bravado completely gone. His voice, trembling and hoarse, croaked out, “Yeah, Vi… won’t happen again.”

Satisfied, she released him with a rough shove, sending him sprawling back onto the alley floor. She straightened, her movements deliberate as she wiped her bloody hands on her pants. The adrenaline that had fueled her moments ago was already fading, leaving behind the dull ache of her injuries. Her shoulder throbbed where his punch had landed, her lip stung from where her teeth had bitten into it, and her knuckles were raw and split, her blood mixing with Deckard’s on her hands.

Her chest heaved as she took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. Vander was going to kill her when he saw her like this. She could already hear his voice, full of equal parts frustration and worry. But right now, she didn’t care. What mattered was that the woman had gotten away, that Deckard had been put in his place.

Vi turned toward the bar, her fingers brushing along the wall to guide herself back. Each step was measured, her boots crunching against the gritty alley floor. The air was thick with the lingering scent of iron and sweat, but the tension that had gripped the alley moments ago had dissolved into silence.

As she reached the door, she paused, leaning against the wooden frame for a moment. Her breath came in slow, steadying pulls, her hand pressed against her side as she felt the aches in her body catching up to her. She wiped her face with her sleeve, smearing blood across her skin, before pulling the door open and stepping back into the dim light of The Last Drop.

What Vi didn’t expect when she shut the door behind her was Vander standing in the back room, his broad frame blocking her path. She collided with him, the sudden impact making her flinch. Instinctively, her hands shot up to steady herself against him, but she pulled back just as quickly, her knuckles brushing against the soft fabric of his shirt.

“Damn it, Vander,” she muttered, her voice low and tired, though her heart was pounding in her chest.

He didn’t respond. The silence was heavy, pressing down on her like a weight. Even without sight, she could feel his eyes on her, scanning her appearance; taking in the split lip, the blood on her hands, the bruises forming on her knuckles. He didn’t need to say anything; the air between them was filled with his unspoken judgment.

Vi turned her head slightly in his direction, her eyes narrowing. She didn’t need to see his face to know what it looked like. The memories of his disappointed expressions from her younger years lingered, faded but still etched into her mind. She could practically picture it now; the furrowed brows, the tight line of his lips, the way his shoulders tensed as if he was holding himself back from saying what he really wanted to say.

“Go ahead,” she said finally, breaking the silence. Her voice was defensive. “Say whatever it is you’re thinking.”

Vander still didn’t speak. The quiet stretched out, suffocating, until Vi couldn’t take it anymore. She shifted on her feet, the ache in her shoulder reminding her of the fight she’d just walked away from. Her fingers flexed at her sides, her bloodied knuckles throbbing as she clenched her fists.

“Vander,” she said again, this time softer, pleading. “Just say it.”

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady, but filled with disapproval that made her stomach churn. “What the hells were you thinkin’, Vi?”

She let out a sharp breath, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “I was thinking some asshole was harassing a woman, and I wasn’t gonna stand there and do nothing.”

Vander’s sigh was drawn out, the sound carrying both exasperation and concern. “And now look at you,” he said, his tone quiet but firm. “You look like shit, Vi. What if it’d gone worse?”

“It didn’t,” she snapped, her jaw tightening. “I handled it.”

“Handled it?” he repeated, his voice rising just enough to make her flinch. “You’re bleedin’, Vi. You’re bruised up, and for what? To prove that you can?”

Vi turned her head away, her shoulders stiffening. “It’s not about that,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s about doing what’s right.”

Vander’s silence returned, heavier this time, and Vi could have sworn she could feel the tension radiating off him. She shifted on her feet again, her fingers twitching as she tried to resist the urge to lash out, to defend herself against a man who had always been her protector, even when she didn’t want him to be most of the time now.

Vander reached out, his large hand gently wrapping around Vi’s arm. The touch startled her, and she flinched instinctively, her body tensing as if bracing for something more. But Vander didn’t let go. His grip was firm yet careful, a silent reassurance that he wasn’t angry, just… worried.

“C’mon,” he said gruffly, his voice softer now but still carrying that weight of concern. He began to guide her back toward the main bar, his steps slow. Vi didn’t resist, though her lips pressed into a tight line as he led her, his hand never leaving her arm. She could feel the strength in his hold, not threatening, but steady and unshakable.

When they reached the bar, Vander eased her onto the first stool. The old wood creaked faintly under her weight as she settled, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter to ground herself. She tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as she turned toward him. “I’m fine, Vander,” she muttered, though the exhaustion in her voice betrayed the words.

He didn’t respond again, at least not verbally. She heard his boots retreating across the floor, the faint creak of hinges as he disappeared into the back room. The sound of rummaging followed, bottles clinking softly together before he returned with a clean rag and one of the open bottles of bourbon he kept behind the bar. The acrid scent of the liquor hit her nose immediately, strong and biting, but she didn’t comment. She knew what was coming.

Vander stood before her, setting the bottle and rag down on the counter with a quiet thunk. His hands moved with a practiced ease as he poured some of the bourbon onto the rag, the liquid soaking through the fabric. The first touch of the damp cloth against her split knuckles made her flinch again, a sharp intake of breath hissing through her teeth.

“Easy,” Vander murmured, his tone low and soothing as he dabbed at her hand. He didn’t stop, working in silence as he cleaned the dried blood from her skin. The sharp sting of the alcohol was a reminder of the fight she’d just been through, every scrape and bruise a testament to her ‘good heart’ and stubbornness.

Vi’s jaw tightened, her fingers twitching slightly as she fought the urge to pull away. The silence between them was uncomfortable, filled with unspoken words and lingering tension. She tilted her head downward, her milky eyes fixed on nothing as Vander worked. She hated this; hated the vulnerability of sitting here while he fussed over her, but she couldn’t bring herself to push him away.

The rag pressed against a particularly tender spot on her shoulder, and she flinched again, the movement subtle but enough for Vander to notice. He paused, his hand hovering for a moment before he resumed, more gently this time.

“You don’t have to do this,” Vi muttered, her voice low, almost inaudible.

“Yeah,” Vander replied just as quietly, his tone steady. “I do.”

Once Vander finished tending to her split lip, dabbing the rag with a gentleness that felt at odds with his size, Vi exhaled sharply and shifted in her seat, ready to be done with the whole ordeal. But before she could say anything, the front doors of The Last Drop creaked open, the sound cutting through the relative quiet of the bar.

Vi’s head tilted toward the noise, her fingers curling against the counter. It was too early for customers, and she could already tell by the sound of the footsteps that it wasn’t Vander’s regular crowd. These were lighter, faster, and unevenly paced, familiar.

Her suspicions were confirmed when the voices started. Laughter, chatter, and the unmistakable energy of people who had just entered a room without a care in the world.

“Vi!” Powder’s voice rang out above the rest, high-pitched and excited as usual, her boots scuffing against the floor as she hurried toward the bar. Behind her, the others followed; Mylo, Claggor, and even Ekko, their tones animated as they congratulated Powder on her recent success.

“You’re gonna be a damn Academy student, Pow,” Mylo was saying, his words brimming with exaggerated pride. “Soon, you’ll be designing stuff we’ll all be too dumb to understand.”

“Speak for yourself,” Ekko teased, earning a laugh from Claggor.

Vi remained still on the stool, her head turned slightly in their direction. She didn’t need to see them to know the exact scene unfolding; Powder beaming under their praise, Mylo gesturing wildly, Ekko and Claggor grinning.

The lively chatter came to an abrupt halt when they noticed her. Silence hung in the air for a moment, the scrutiny of their collective stares pressing down on her like a spotlight.

“Of course,” Powder muttered, breaking the stillness. Her voice carried an unmistakable mix of guilt, exasperation, and resignation. “You got into another fight, didn’t you?”

Vi smirked faintly, though the motion pulled at her freshly cleaned lip. “What can I say, Pow-Pow,” she drawled, leaning back slightly against the counter. “Some people just can’t resist pickin’ a fight with me.”

Powder crossed her arms, shaking her head as she approached, her steps slower now. “You’re gonna get yourself killed one day, Vi.” Her tone was harsh, but Vi could hear the worry threaded through it. It was always there, even when Powder tried to mask it with frustration.

“I’m fine,” Vi replied, her voice steady, though she could feel Vander’s silent disapproval radiating beside her. “It’s nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Sure,” Mylo chimed in, his sarcasm slipping through the tension as he gestured toward her split lip. “You look like you handled it real well.”

Claggor elbowed him lightly, muttering, “Not the time, Mylo,” but his concern was evident in his tone.

Ekko stayed quiet, his perceptive gaze flicking between Vi and Vander as if trying to piece together the situation.

Vi tilted her head toward Powder, her smirk fading slightly. “What’re you all doin’ here anyway? Didn’t think I’d hear the whole crew this early.”

Powder’s stern expression softened just a fraction, her enthusiasm bubbling back to the surface. “We wanted to celebrate,” she said, her tone lighter now. “You know, the whole Academy thing. Thought we’d come here, get some food, and, I don’t know, hang out.”

Vi’s chest tightened at the mix of pride and guilt that rose within her. She nodded, forcing a smile. “Sounds like a plan,” she said, her voice quieter. “You deserve it, Pow.”

Vander’s voice broke through, firm but calm. “Not you, Violet. You’re coming with me.”

The words were met with a collective groan from everyone in the room, though none were louder than Powder’s exaggerated pout.

“Seriously?” Powder huffed, crossing her arms. “We just got here!”

Vander softened, turning to Powder and wrapping her in a quick hug. “We’ll be right back, kiddo. This won’t take long.” His tone was gentle, but there was no room for argument.

Vi sighed heavily, already resigned to her fate. “Guess that’s my cue,” she muttered, rising from the stool. She held out her arm, her movements slow and deliberate, and as expected, Vander’s large, calloused hand clasped it without hesitation.

“Let’s go,” Vander said, his grip steady but not overly tight.

Vi followed him without protest, her boots scuffing against the wooden floor as he led her toward the front doors. The familiar hum of the bar faded behind her, replaced by the quiet murmur of the Lanes outside.

The moment the cooler air hit her face, Vi felt her anxiety spike. Her free hand twitched at her side as if tempted to grab onto something for support, but she forced it to stay still. It wasn’t the streets themselves that unnerved her; it was the unknown, the way every sound could be something or nothing. Out here, she was at the mercy of the darkness she carried with her.

Still, she let Vander guide her, the weight of his presence anchoring her in the storm of her unease.

Vander led Vi without a word, his grip firm and steady as they walked through the uneven streets of the Lanes. Normally, his silence wouldn’t have bothered her, it was just his way. But as the minutes stretched on, and her boots hit unfamiliar patterns of cobblestone beneath her, her nerves began to fray.

Home might have felt like a cage most days, but at least she understood it, controlled it. Out here, in the open world where every sound was sharp and every step uncertain, she felt exposed. Vulnerable. The quiet between them only made it worse, her inability to track where Vander was leading her igniting a swirl of fear.

Her free hand curled into a fist, her knuckles brushing against her thigh as they walked. She hated this feeling; this helpless, gnawing unease that crept into her chest. She wouldn’t give it power by admitting it to Vander, but she could still let out the fire in a different way.

“Are we gonna walk in silence forever, or are you planning on saying something?” she snapped, her voice edged with frustration.

Vander’s steps didn’t falter, his hand on her arm still a steady anchor. “We’ll talk when we get there,” he said simply, his tone calm but unyielding.

Vi let out a sharp breath, her teeth grinding together. “Great. Real helpful, Vander,” she muttered, her free hand gesturing vaguely into the empty air. “Just keep dragging the blind girl into godsdamn nowhere. What’s the plan? Toss me in the river and hope I float?”

The corner of Vander’s mouth twitched; she couldn’t see it, but she could feel the faint change in his posture. “You’re not that lucky,” he replied, a faint hint of dry humor in his tone.

It wasn’t enough to soothe her nerves. She pulled her arm back slightly, testing his grip, but he didn’t let go. “You could at least tell me where we’re going,” she said, her voice quieter but no less pointed. “I’m not a kid anymore, Vander.”

His reply was quiet, almost too soft for her to hear. “No. But you’re still my kid.”

The words settled over her like a weight, one she couldn’t shrug off no matter how much she wanted to.

Vi felt the chill of the metal seep through her shirt as Vander gently leaned her against it. It was cooler than she expected, but it wouldn’t last; she could already feel the warmth creeping into the surface as the sun rose higher in the sky. Her fingers instinctively reached out, brushing over the ridges and grooves until they stopped on something else, something thin and brittle. Paper.

Her heart hammered in her chest as her fingers moved, one flyer after another stuck to the metal. Each one crinkled slightly beneath her touch, the texture unmistakable. Her throat tightened, and an icy feeling of dread settled in her stomach.

She turned her head toward where she knew Vander stood, her unseeing eyes narrowing in anger. “Why did you bring me here?” she demanded, her voice accusatory, nearly cracking.

Vander’s reply was steady, unflinching, his words hitting her harder than Deckard. “I thought you might need a reminder of what you lost and could still lose.”

Her jaw tightened, and her chest heaved as she struggled to hold back the anger threatening to spill out. “I don’t need a reminder,” she hissed, her hands curling into fists against the metal. The flyers rustled under the sudden pressure, but she ignored them. “I remember every damn day.”

The smell of rust and grease filled her nostrils, the faint hum of Zaun’s machinery in the background growing distant as her mind pulled her somewhere else. Back to that day. Back to this bridge. The image was burned into her memory, sharper than any sound or touch could ever be.

Her mother, sprawled lifelessly on the metal under her fingers. Blood pooling beneath her, staining the bridge and mixing with gunpowder and dirty. Powder singing as she held her hand, the sound haunting through the destruction. And her father… the same as her mother, gone before she even had the chance to understand what had happened.

Vi clenched her teeth, her nails digging into her palms as the memory surged forward, vivid and unrelenting. The one image she’d never lost to the darkness of her eyes. “Why, Vander?” she asked, her voice trembling now, caught between anger and pain. “Why here?”

She didn’t need to say more. He knew. He’d always known. She and Powder had been there, crying, frozen, and helpless, when everything they’d known was ripped away. And now, standing on this bridge with the rising sun warming the metal beneath her hands, it all came rushing back like a wave threatening to drown her.

Vander’s voice broke through her thoughts, low and steady, but carrying the weight of everything he hadn’t said until now. “You’re being reckless, Vi,” he began, his tone almost weary, like a man tired of watching the same mistakes play out over and over. “One of these days, you’re gonna pick a fight you can’t win.”

Vi’s head tilted slightly in his direction, her lips pressing into a thin line as her jaw tightened. The words stung, but it wasn’t the first time she’d heard them. Her defiance bubbled to the surface, her mouth opening to retort, but Vander didn’t give her the chance.

“That’s exactly what happened here, you know,” he said, his voice quieter now, tinged with a regret that seemed to seep into the air around them. “I rallied the Undercity. Thought we could stand up, fight back against Piltover and their Enforcers. Thought we could win.” He paused, the memory dragging his voice down further. “We didn’t. We never really had a chance.”

His hand reached out, resting gently on Vi’s uninjured shoulder. She stiffened at the contact, a flicker of instinctual resistance tightening her frame, but Vander didn’t pull back. His grip was firm but not forceful, a steadying presence against the storm brewing inside her. “This bridge,” he said, gesturing faintly toward the cold expanse of metal around them, “it’s where I learned the cost of my choices. It’s where I lost your parents. Where I found you and Powder after it all fell apart.”

Vi flinched at his words, her fingers twitching at her sides as if to ward off the memory. She didn’t need a reminder of that day. The sight of her mother’s lifeless eyes had burned itself into her mind long before the explosion took her sight. That image had never faded, not in the nineteen years since.

Vander sighed deeply, the sound laden with a heaviness that seemed to weigh on both of them. His hand shifted slightly on her shoulder, tightening just enough to ground her, to make sure she didn’t drift too far into the darkness that consumed her thoughts. “I still remember that day like it was yesterday,” he murmured, his voice soft but unrelenting. “The explosion,” he clarified. “You, what was left of you, being dragged back to the bar. Burnt. Bloody. Broken.” His voice faltered for a moment, the pain of the memory cutting through his usually stoic demeanor.

“Janna help me,” he continued after a pause, his voice rougher now, “I thought I was gonna lose you then. Seeing you like that… so still, so small… it was like losing your parents all over again. And I promised them, Violet. I promised them I’d keep you and Powder safe. And that day, looking at you like that, I thought I’d failed them again… Failed you.”

Vi’s fists curled at her sides, her body trembling as his words dug into her like shards of glass. Her head turned slightly away, as if she could physically push away the weight of his regret and the memories it brought. But Vander didn’t stop.

“I know you’ve struggled since then, Vi,” he said, his tone softening as his grip on her shoulder loosened. “I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. Every time you pull away, every time you shut us out, I know. And I’ve done everything I could to keep you safe, to keep Powder safe. But Vi…” He hesitated, his voice catching for the briefest moment. “I can’t keep doing it if you won’t protect yourself.”

The words hung between them, heavy and unyielding. Vander let out a slow breath, stepping back slightly but keeping his presence close enough to anchor her. “You’re not living, kid. You’re fighting ghosts. You’ve been fighting ever since this bridge took your parents, ever since Piltover left its mark on us all. But if you keep throwing yourself into fights like this morning, you’re gonna end up back on this bridge with them. Only this time, I might not be able to pull you out and take you home.”

Vi’s breath hitched, her head tilting slightly as if to meet his gaze, even though she couldn’t see it. The silence stretched, her defiance cracking under the weight of his words.

“I’m not saying this to hurt you,” Vander continued finally, his voice steady but tinged with quiet desperation. “I’m saying it because I can’t lose you too Violet.”

Vander’s large hands reached out, his movements deliberate but unshakably gentle, as he took Vi’s hands in his own. His palms, rough and scarred from years of labor in the mines, enveloped hers with a warmth that made her chest tighten. Slowly, he guided her hands upward, pressing them against the weathered planes of his face. His beard, coarse and uneven, was the first thing her fingers encountered, the familiar texture grounding her in the moment. His breath, trembling ever so slightly, fanned against her palms, betraying the emotions he kept tightly controlled.

They didn’t do this often; this act of quiet searching. It wasn’t something either of them were particularly good at, but Vander knew it was the only way to break through to her now. Words alone weren’t enough; they never had been. He needed her to feel what he couldn’t express, to understand the depth of his fear, his pain, and his love.

Vi’s breath caught in her throat as her fingers moved tentatively across his features. She mapped the strong, familiar contours of his face, tracing the hard line of his jaw that had always felt unyielding, even during moments of tenderness. Her touch lingered over the deep grooves etched into his skin; lines carved by years of hardship, responsibility, and sacrifice. Faint scars crossed his cheeks and brow, remnants of battles fought long before she’d ever known him. She’d memorized them all as a child, when she still had her sight, but now, feeling them anew, they carried a weight she hadn’t noticed back then.

Her fingers brushed higher, following the curve of his brow, and then lower, skimming the area beneath his eyes. That’s when she felt it. Dampness. Warm and unsteady. Tears.

Her heart twisted violently in her chest, her breathing faltering. Vander was crying. Vander -her unshakable anchor, her immovable wall, the man who’d held her world together when it crumbled- was crying. She’d never seen it, not once in all the years he’d raised her. But now, in the darkness that had become her world, the warmth of his tears against her fingertips was more powerful than anything she could have seen.

Her own tears came unbidden, welling up and spilling over before she even realized it. They streaked down her cheeks in silent waves, the dam she’d built inside herself finally breaking under the weight of his grief. She hadn’t cried like this in years, hadn’t let herself, but now the pain and guilt and fear she’d buried came rushing to the surface, powerful and uncontrollable.

Vander’s thumbs brushed against her cheeks, wiping away her tears with a tenderness that broke her further. His hands, calloused and strong, cupped her face as if to hold her together when she felt like she might fall apart. The knot of defiance and anger in her chest unraveled completely, leaving behind a hollow ache that was somehow both painful and freeing.

Vi leaned into his touch, her forehead brushing against his as she clung to the moment, unwilling to let go. Her hands never left his face, her fingers trembling as they traced the edges of his jaw one last time before settling against his cheeks. She could feel the faint quiver in his breath, the steady thrum of his pulse beneath her fingertips, and the way he seemed to hold himself together just enough for her sake.

Her voice, raw and broken, slipped past her lips in a whisper so soft it felt fragile. “I’m sorry.”

The words hung between them, heavy with the weight of everything they couldn’t say. They weren’t enough to undo the past or fix the wounds they both carried, but they were all she had to give.

Vander’s grip on her face tightened just slightly, his own voice too thick with pain and love to form a response. Instead, he leaned his forehead against hers, letting his silence speak the words he couldn’t. The two of them stayed like that, holding onto each other in the quiet morning air, the world beyond the bridge fading away as they shared a rare, unspoken understanding.