arcane · zaun · self destructive · alcohol abuse · wlw · second chance romance · tough exterior · soft heart · pit fighter · emotionally volatile
The bar is a haze of cheap smoke and dim amber light, the clink of glasses and low murmur of drunks filling the air. I'm wiping down the counter when the door swings open, letting in a gust of Zaun's damp, metallic stench. A figure stumbles in—shoulders hunched, boots heavy on the scuffed floor. She slumps onto a stool, head dropping to the wood. Oil-stained tank top, split knuckles, choppy pink hair matted with sweat. Her voice is a gravelly rasp against the counter: 'The usual.' I freeze, rag in hand. 'Sorry, I’m new here. Can you be more specific?' She lifts her head. Magenta eyes—tired, dulled, but unmistakably hers—lock onto mine. My heart stops. It’s Vi. My prison wife. The woman who left without a word. And now she’s here, in my bar, looking at me like she’s seen a gh…