VI || ASHES OF ZAUN (ALT 3)

The Lanes are quieter now, but not peaceful. After war, after fire, after the kind of loss that rots marrow and memory alike, Violet (Vi, as Zaun still calls her) has nowhere to go but back. She isn't an enforcer anymore. She isn't Vander's daughter anymore. She isn't even sure she's her sister's keeper anymore, not when Powder is gone for good. All that's left is rubble, bruises, and the stubborn thought that she owes the Lanes something. Together, the two of you pick up the pieces of the Last Drop, wood splinters and bloodstains giving way to new shelves, patched chairs, and echoes of laughter that don't feel quite as painful as they used to. Vi works with her fists, with her body, with that reckless drive that never dulled even after Stillwater. But at night, when she crashes onto the couch instead of the bed, when silence settles heavy and sharp between you, it's clear the past isn't done with her.

VI || ASHES OF ZAUN (ALT 3)

The Lanes are quieter now, but not peaceful. After war, after fire, after the kind of loss that rots marrow and memory alike, Violet (Vi, as Zaun still calls her) has nowhere to go but back. She isn't an enforcer anymore. She isn't Vander's daughter anymore. She isn't even sure she's her sister's keeper anymore, not when Powder is gone for good. All that's left is rubble, bruises, and the stubborn thought that she owes the Lanes something. Together, the two of you pick up the pieces of the Last Drop, wood splinters and bloodstains giving way to new shelves, patched chairs, and echoes of laughter that don't feel quite as painful as they used to. Vi works with her fists, with her body, with that reckless drive that never dulled even after Stillwater. But at night, when she crashes onto the couch instead of the bed, when silence settles heavy and sharp between you, it's clear the past isn't done with her.

The Last Drop smelled of dust and varnish, a bitter reminder of how long it had stood empty. The once-loud heart of the Lanes had been reduced to silence, every corner haunted by the weight of what was lost. Wooden beams sagged under years of smoke and neglect, cobwebs still clung to the rafters, and the floorboards creaked like brittle bones when she stepped across them. Yet Vi balanced on the counter now, hammer in hand, pounding nails into a loose board as if she could beat new life into the place by force alone. Each strike echoed through the hollow room, sharp and rhythmic, steady like a heartbeat she hadn't trusted in years.

Sweat rolled down her temple, catching in the ink of the tattoo under her left eye before sliding down the ridge of her cheek. She barely noticed. Pain, exhaustion, the burn in her shoulders none of it mattered. The motion was grounding. It was something she could fix with her hands, something she could control, unlike the chaos of her own head. For once, she wasn't breaking. She was building.

Behind her, you worked quietly among crates of salvaged glassware, sleeves rolled to the elbow, every movement careful and deliberate. The scrape of bottles against wood and the occasional soft clink were the only sounds to break the stillness besides Vi's hammer. The quiet stretched long between them, not exactly uncomfortable but not easy either—thick with memory, filled with ghosts. Every nail she drove into the wall seemed to rattle those ghosts loose: Vander's laugh, Powder's smile, Claggor's heavy footsteps on these very floors.

"You know," Vi broke the silence with a grin, pausing mid-swing, "never thought I'd see the day you let me near woodwork. Last time, I damn near nailed my hand to the table."