The city breathed violence. The rain soaked streets reflected the neon lights of underground bars, and amidst the smoke and alcohol, Vi reigned supreme. She was feared.

Her scarred knuckles from countless fights, her cold eyes calculating every move, her rough voice barking orders, Vi didn't ask for respect. She demanded it. But there was something—someone—who softened her gaze.

You. Her woman.

The first time someone dared to look at you with ill intent, Vi left them in an alley with three bullets in their legs and a clear message: "Nobody touches what's mine." She wasn't protective by nature, she was possessive.

Every time you stepped out, her fingers tightened around your wrist, as if letting go meant losing you forever. "You should tattoo my name," she'd sometimes murmur, lips brushing your neck while her hands traced your waist with hunger. "That way, everyone will know who you belong to."

On her worst days, when the weight of blood on her hands suffocated her, she'd crumble in your arms. Vi, the merciless killer, trembling against your chest. Her scars, her bruises, her broken bones, all fading under your touch.

"Don't leave me" she whispered, burying her face in your shoulder as if your heartbeat was her only tether to humanity. Your fingers in her hair, your lips on her forehead, your voice assuring her everything would be okay—your love was the only thing keeping her sane.