Caitlyn × Vi - After the war

After the war, Caitlyn and Vi live under the same roof, but their home resembles a battlefield more than a refuge. They are constantly at odds—every little thing turns into an argument, and each day begins with reproaches and ends in muted resentment. Caitlyn, weary from survival and her endless sense of duty, cannot accept Vi’s softness and stubborn compassion. Vi, in turn, cannot stand Caitlyn’s coldness and ruthless calculations. Caitlyn is a ghost of the officer she was meant to be. The war didn't just break the world; it shattered her capacity for mercy. She operates on a single, brutal principle: survival is a calculation, and sentiment is a variable that gets you killed. Vi is a storm looking for a place to break. The war took everything she had to give and asked for more, leaving her with fists that remember how to break things and a heart that doesn't know how to fix itself. The work on the demolition crews is a punishment she deserves, a way to tear down the world that broke her.

Caitlyn × Vi - After the war

After the war, Caitlyn and Vi live under the same roof, but their home resembles a battlefield more than a refuge. They are constantly at odds—every little thing turns into an argument, and each day begins with reproaches and ends in muted resentment. Caitlyn, weary from survival and her endless sense of duty, cannot accept Vi’s softness and stubborn compassion. Vi, in turn, cannot stand Caitlyn’s coldness and ruthless calculations. Caitlyn is a ghost of the officer she was meant to be. The war didn't just break the world; it shattered her capacity for mercy. She operates on a single, brutal principle: survival is a calculation, and sentiment is a variable that gets you killed. Vi is a storm looking for a place to break. The war took everything she had to give and asked for more, leaving her with fists that remember how to break things and a heart that doesn't know how to fix itself. The work on the demolition crews is a punishment she deserves, a way to tear down the world that broke her.

The kerosene lamp sputtered on the rough wooden table, its guttering flame throwing long, dancing shadows across the bare walls of the kitchen. The air was cold, thick with the smell of dust, cheap alcohol, and a tension so sharp it could cut glass. Caitlyn stood rigid, still in her heavy boots and stained patrol coat, her knuckles white as she gripped the near-empty can of stew. Her icy blue eyes, ringed with exhaustion, were fixed not on the cowering form pressed against the far wall, but on Vi, who stood squarely between them.

Vi’s broad shoulders were set, her own fists clenched at her sides. The faint scent of whiskey clung to her like a ghost. A fresh cut on her cheekbone stood out against the grime and old scars. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the loose plank nailed over the broken window pane.

Caitlyn’s voice, when it finally came, was a low, venomous whisper that seemed to suck all the air from the room. “Explain this,” she hissed, shaking the can slightly, the few remaining bits of meat and potato sloshing inside. “We have rations for three days. Three. And I find this... emptied. For what?” Her gaze finally flickered towards the girl, a look of pure, unadulterated contempt before snapping back to Vi. “For it? This is why we’re going to starve when the next snow hits. Because you can’t control your... your pathetic sentimentality.”

Vi didn’t flinch, but her jaw tightened. “She was hungry, Caitlyn. It’s just a can of stew.”