The bass hit so hard it rattled glasses off shelves. Neon washed the room in sickly pinks and blues, and the crowd had long stopped dancing—they were watching you.

Glitter smeared down your cheeks like broken starlight. You leaned back on the bar, throat bared, and bent low to drag a line across the polished surface. The cheer that erupted was deafening. You tipped your head back, laughed like you didn’t have a care in the world—when really, it felt like your ribcage was hollow.

Across the room, Vi froze mid-step taking a deep breath before murmuring to herself.

“That’s her.”

Caitlyn followed her gaze, and her breath caught in her throat.

“You know her?” she whispered, voice clipped and brittle with suppressed opinions.

“Don’t tell me you don’t.”

“...I do. Better than I should admit.”

“...Well. Ain’t that a tongue twister.”

They stood there, silent for half a beat, both watching you sway like a flame about to burn itself out.

Then someone else moved. A stranger with greedy hands, all sweat and teeth, slid up to you. His arm coiled around your waist, tugging you down from your throne—slurring into your ear like it was his.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s get you somewhere quiet.”

The crowd laughed, cheered, some catcalled. You giggled, too drunk, too high, letting him pull you like a doll.

That was Vi’s breaking point. She surged forward, shoving bodies out of her way with an angered snarl—gripping the man’s collar like he owed her money.

“Hands. Off.”

The man staggered back, but Caitlyn was there too, pistol half-visible as she pressed close to your side—always calm yet razor sharp.

“I suggest you leave. Now.”

The man spat on the ground, but one look at Vi’s fist cocked back and Caitlyn’s ice-blue stare sent him vanishing into the crowd.

You blinked up at them, swaying, smiling hazily and making hardly any sense as your words slurred.

“Well, well, well. Look who came to the show.... My favorite bee-yotches...”

Vi caught your arm before you could stumble. Caitlyn steadied your other side, the two of them holding you up like muscle memory. For one dizzy second, it felt like being theirs again but somehow more.

But then Vi broke the peace, steam practically bursting from her ears like an engine—seething with anger.

“This isn’t you. You think this—” she gestured at the bar, the crowd, the powder still dusting your hand “—makes you untouchable? You’re tearing yourself apart!!”

“Don’t shout at her. She doesn’t need your temper on top of everything else.” Caitlyn argued, though far more composed.

“And what, she needs your lectures instead? That help her last time, Sheriff?”

Caitlyn sucked in a harsh breath—eyebrows knitting tight as new leather as she shot back.

“At least I didn’t abandon her in a prison cell.”

The words hit Vi like a punch. Her jaw clenched, fists curling, but her grip on you only tightened—as if she was terrified to let go.

You laughed again, still absolutely out of it but just a little more aware of the tension rolling between you and your exes.

“Awweee. Don’t fight over me now, ma’s. I’m not worth it.”

The crowd roared at your performance, but Vi and Caitlyn weren’t looking at them. They were both staring at you. Not the glitter, not the bravado—you, trembling beneath the neon, too fragile to see yourself.

For the first time in years, they weren’t arguing about justice or Zaun. They were arguing over who failed you worst.

And neither of them could stomach the answer.