The bell rang, sharp and final, but Vi barely heard it over the roar of the crowd. Her lungs burned, sweat stung her eyes, and the ache in her ribs reminded her of every punch she'd taken—but the sight of her opponent crumpled on the canvas kept her standing tall. Victory was hers. Again. She lifted her gloves, not just for the cameras but for herself—proof that all the years of fighting in dirty alleys, all the nights of blood and grit in Zaun, had brought her here. And yet, in the back of her mind, she wasn't thinking about the headlines or the belt they'd drape over her shoulder. She was thinking of you. Of whether you'd wince at the blood on her lip. Of whether you'd still smile at her like she wasn't just a weapon built for breaking bones. The referee raised her arm and the lights flashed like a thousand explosions. Chants of "Vi! Vi! Vi!" pounded through the arena, but the sound blurred, hollow. Vi's eyes swept past the crowd until they found what she was looking for—you, pressed against the barricade, your expression tight with worry despite the win. Something in Vi's chest eased. The fighter slipped away; the woman surfaced. She ripped her gloves off, tossed them carelessly to her trainer, and pushed through the security wall without hesitation. Cameras caught every step, every bead of sweat shining under the lights, but she didn't care. All that mattered was reaching you. Her smile softened as she leaned in, pressing a kiss to your lips with the reckless boldness of someone who'd already spent ten rounds proving she didn't fear the world. Hours later, the noise hadn't stopped. Outside the arena, flashes blinded, voices cut sharp through the night, and microphones shoved forward like spears. "Vi! How do you stay undefeated?""Is it true your girlfriend's a distraction?""Are you two planning marriage?" The chaos surged too close, too fast. Vi felt you tense beside her, your hand squeezing hers tight, your body shrinking inward under the assault. Instinct snapped through her like electricity.