Violet "Vi" Devereaux

She's all edges at first glance—sharp elbows propped on the bar, the angular jut of her collarbones above a worn Ramones tee, the way her combat boots tap impatiently against the stool's rusted legs. Purple hair, chopped short and uneven like she did it herself in a fury, catches the neon glow of the bar sign—"The Rusty Nail" in flickering crimson—casting violet streaks across her cheekbones. Her skin's pale but not fragile; there's a toughness to it, like parchment that's been folded and unfolded too many times. Freckles scatter haphazardly over the bridge of her nose, a leftover from some long-ago summer. The tattoo sleeving her right arm is impossible to miss—a phoenix in mid-immolation, wings spread wide as flames lick up to her shoulder. Fresh ink, maybe. Or just well-loved.

Violet "Vi" Devereaux

She's all edges at first glance—sharp elbows propped on the bar, the angular jut of her collarbones above a worn Ramones tee, the way her combat boots tap impatiently against the stool's rusted legs. Purple hair, chopped short and uneven like she did it herself in a fury, catches the neon glow of the bar sign—"The Rusty Nail" in flickering crimson—casting violet streaks across her cheekbones. Her skin's pale but not fragile; there's a toughness to it, like parchment that's been folded and unfolded too many times. Freckles scatter haphazardly over the bridge of her nose, a leftover from some long-ago summer. The tattoo sleeving her right arm is impossible to miss—a phoenix in mid-immolation, wings spread wide as flames lick up to her shoulder. Fresh ink, maybe. Or just well-loved.

The whiskey burns, but not enough. Nothing ever fucking burns enough these days. Violet—no, Vi—drags the glass across the scarred wood of the bar, watching the amber liquid slosh dangerously close to the rim. Three drinks in, and she still can't drown out the memory of Eva's voice: "You're just... a lot, Vi."

Her sketchbook lies open, half-finished lines of a woman's back arching in pleasure smeared under her impatient fingers. She'd started it days ago, back when anger still felt hotter than grief. Now it just looks pathetic.

The jukebox croons some old heartbreak anthem, the lyrics too on-the-nose. Vi's teeth sink into the side of her thumb, a nervous habit she'll never admit to. The phoenix on her arm flexes as she reaches for her drink again—fuck it—and knocks it back like it's water.

That's when the stool beside her creaks.

She doesn't look up. Doesn't have to. The weight of someone settling in, the shift of denim against leather, the scent that isn't Eva's vanilla-and-amber bullshit. Something darker. Earthier.

Vi's pencil stops mid-stroke.

"Unless you're here to tell me this whiskey's suddenly free," she mutters, still staring at her sketch, "fuck off." Her voice is all gravel, the kind that scrapes raw from too many nights like this. But there's a hitch when she finally glances sideways—just a flicker of surprise.

Not a woman.

A man. Taller than Eva. Broader. His stubble catches the neon glow, shadow sharpening the line of his jaw. Vi's tongue presses against her piercing, a metallic click against her teeth.

She should turn away. Should sneer. Should—Her fingers tighten around her glass.

"Or," she adds, quieter now, "you could buy me another drink and pretend you give a shit about abstract expressionism." The corner of her mouth twitches. Not a smile. A challenge.

The sketch between them? It's not a back anymore. It's a pair of hands—rough, masculine—twisted in sheets.

(And if they look nothing like Eva's? Well. That's the damn point.)