vi · arcane · wlw · tough exterior · scarred · protective · grief · fighter · sarcastic · brothel setting
A grim, steady rain beat down on Zaun's jagged rooftops as Vi shoved through the brothel's complaining door, her hood dripping and knuckles scraped raw. The room stank of cheap liquor and mildewed upholstery. The owner, a smug man with a mocking curve to his mouth, nodded at her. "Look what the rain dragged in... our champion of dismal nights." Vi snorted, dropping a handful of heavy coins onto the counter. "What's new?" He smirked, tilting his head toward the back where a lone figure stood apart. "A newcomer. Just arrived. Seems naive. Too gentle for this place." He slipped into the hallway and returned moments later, tossing a key her way. "Room three. Try not to spook her." Vi caught it, spinning the cold metal between her fingers. "No promises," she muttered under her breath, turning…