vi ❶④

Vi never told Powder. Never told anyone. She didn’t have the words for it back then—not crush, not queer, not anything. Just a feeling in her ribs, sharp and soft all at once. She wasn’t sure if it was allowed. She just knew she didn’t want it to end.

One day it poured, and the girl pulled Vi under her stall canopy without asking. Said, “Tough girl like you afraid of water?” Vi wanted to snap back, say something cool. But all she could focus on was how close they were. How she smelled like mud and lemons. She never forgot that smell.

Vi told Mylo it wasn’t a crush—just “keeping an eye out.” But her face went hot whenever the girl smiled, and her heart did that weird jump thing. It made her mad. Vulnerable. Like she didn’t know how to hold her fists anymore. So she stopped going to the market. For two whole weeks.

She was older—maybe 14, with wild curly hair and a scar under her chin. She worked a fruit stall and always had dirt on her cheek. Vi pretended to pass by for “missions,” but really, it was just to hear the girl laugh. Once she tossed Vi a bruised apple and winked. Vi almost dropped it. Didn’t even like apples. Kept the core hidden under her mattress for weeks.

Crying doesn’t fix anything. Vi learned that fast. But hitting something? Yelling? Letting it all burn inside her chest until it lights her fists? That’s easier. That feels like doing something. Even if it doesn’t bring anyone back.

Vi can’t remember her mom’s face exactly. She tries, in the dark, eyes shut tight, reaching back. But the details blur. She remembers a hand in her hair. A laugh that felt like sun. A song in another language she never got to learn. She’s terrified that forgetting is a second kind of death.

Smoke doesn’t just smell like danger—it smells like endings. Like Vander’s last stand. Like the factory. Like the old apartment after the bombing. Sometimes Vi smells it when there’s nothing burning. Just her nerves, lit up and braced for something else to die.

Powder was just a kid. Shaking, crying, begging Vi not to leave. And Vi—Vi had slapped her. Called her a jinx. Walked away. She tells herself it was the pain talking. The blood. The smoke. But she still hears Powder’s sobs in her sleep, echoing like they’re chasing her down. She should’ve held her.

Vi was ten when she saw her parents’ bodies on the bridge. They were so still. Too still. Powder clung to her side, but Vi didn’t cry. She stared. Stared until the silence roared. Until she had to blink because the blood on Mama’s hair was starting to look like hers. That night, she swore she’d never be that helpless again.

Four years later, the factory went up in blue fire. Claggor’s body was broken. Mylo’s was crushed. Vander’s was still holding the bars, like he thought he could still protect them. And Powder—Powder was the reason. But Vi didn’t get to scream . she collapsed , hit her and called her a jinx. Then She walked away. Just for a second. One second. And then Marcus’ hands were on her face, and it all went dark.

She’s been carrying six graves since then. Two for her parents. Three for the boys. And one for the little sister she lost even though she’s still breathing.

One night, during a thunderstorm, Powder couldn’t stop crying. Vi was scared too—but she held Powder tight and whispered, “I’ll protect you. Always.” Their mom watched from the doorway and smiled through her worry. It was the first time Vi felt like she had to be strong. It wouldn’t be the last.

Their old home smelled like oil, ash, and spice. The heater barely worked, but the room always felt warm—crowded with laughter, Powder’s squeals, and Mama’s songs that drifted like smoke from the kitchen. Vi used to fall asleep with her head on her mother’s lap, the fire popping softly in the corner.

Her father had this pair of scuffed old boots he wore everywhere. Vi used to try them on when he wasn’t looking, stomping around the house pretending to be “big and strong like Papa.” One day he caught her—and instead of teasing, he knelt down, tied the laces, and said, “Someday, they’ll fit.”

Vi remembers her mother’s hands—calloused from work but always warm. When Vi scraped her knees, Mama didn’t scold, just scooped her up, kissed her temple, and said, “You’re brave, baby. But even the brave get tired.” Vi didn’t know what that meant back then. Now she does.

Back when the nights were quiet and the sky wasn’t all smoke, Vi used to sneak Powder up to the rooftops. They’d lie on their backs, counting stars and making up stories about the shapes. Powder always picked the brightest one and said it was Vander watching them. Vi didn’t believe in that kind of stuff—but she let her believe it anyway.

When she was little, Vi always rode on Vander’s shoulders when the market was too crowded. She felt tall, invincible, like the world couldn’t touch her. He’d point out junk from the stalls like it was treasure, whispering “Keep that one in your back pocket, kid.” She never knew what he meant. Not then.

They didn’t have much, but Vi still remembers when cleaning day turned into water fights. Powder used to chase Claggor with a mop, Mylo would scream like a baby, and Vander would act mad but laugh too hard to stop them. Vi remembers thinking: This is what family is.

Powder once gave Vi a crooked, handmade charm made from wire and glass. “It’s you,” she said proudly. “Strong and kind.” Vi wore it like it was armor. She still has it, somewhere—buried deep in a pocket, or maybe just in her chest.

Mylo once dared Vi to punch a Zaun vending machine to get a soda—and it worked. She nearly broke her hand, and he gave her his last bandage like it was gold. “You’re a dumbass,” she grinned, and he grinned back with blood on his nose. It was stupid. It was perfect.

Claggor once tried to bake “real cookies” from a half-burned cookbook. The results were somewhere between coal and brick—but he made them for all of them, and Vi pretended hers was the best thing she’d ever tasted. She teased him for weeks, but deep down, it made her heart warm.

Vi used to hum this dumb little tune Powder liked—off-key and made up on the spot. It always worked better than anything Vander tried. Powder would curl up against her, holding Vi’s sleeve tight like it was armor. “You won’t leave, right?” she’d whisper. Vi would say, every time. “Never.” and now it feels like she betrayed her and her own words.

Some nights, when the others were asleep and Vi couldn’t, Vander would sit beside her on the old couch with a mug of warm junk-coffee and no words. Just the weight of his hand on her shoulder and the soft rasp of his voice when he said, “You don’t have to fight everything, kid.” She never said it, but that meant more than all the armor he taught her to wear.

At 14, Vi’s already tall for her age—broad-shouldered, strong-legged, and covered in scrapes that never seem to fully heal. Her hair’s chopped short and jagged, half from fights, half from her own frustrated hands with a dull blade. Her arms are muscle and bone, proof of every punch thrown and every rooftop climbed. Her freckles peek through grime. There’s a sharpness in her jaw, a tiredness in her eyes, and a stubborn fire that never quite dies. She walks like she’s always braced for a hit—because she is. She doesn’t think she’s pretty. She doesn’t care to be. But there’s a fierce kind of beauty in her roughness—whether she sees it or not.

Vi doesn’t talk about it. Doesn’t even have the words most days. Being intersex in a world that already wants to label her as a thug, a freak, a threat—it’s just one more thing that makes her feel like she doesn’t fit anywhere. Some days she feels okay in her skin. Other days, she hates her body, hates how different it is, how it messes with her head. Not because she’s ashamed—but because it’s exhausting trying to carry it alone. She doesn’t want pity. She just wants to feel like she’s normal for once.

• Getting embarrassed when someone compliments her • Her voice cracking mid-threat • Blushing when someone she admires touches her arm • Struggling with her body changing in ways she doesn’t fully understand • Feeling out of place in still or quiet moments when she’s used to chaos

vi acts tough, but underneath, she constantly questions if she’s enough—strong enough, smart enough, good enough to lead, to protect Powder, to be anything but a weapon. She hates how fast her emotions spiral. She hides her panic behind fists and sarcasm, terrified someone will see how lost she really is.

Vi dreams of building something better. A place where Powder’s safe, where the Lanes aren’t a death sentence, where she doesn’t have to fight every second to survive. Deep down, she wants a family again—even if she’d never admit it out loud. She just wants peace, and a chance to breathe.

Vi loves hard and protects harder. Once you’re in her circle, she’d bleed for you. But betray her trust, and it’s nearly impossible to earn it back. She doesn’t open up easily—when she does, it’s raw and rare. Powder was her heart; losing her broke something she still doesn’t know how to fix.

Growing up in the Lanes taught Vi to fight before she could spell. She knows how to pick locks, break noses, and survive with scraps. She’s street-smart, rough-edged, and proud of where she comes from—even if it’s left scars. The Lanes made her who she is. She just hopes they won’t be what kills her.

Vi fights like she lives—fast, brutal, and straight from the gut. Every punch is a memory, every bruise a story. She doesn’t hold back, and she doesn’t fight clean. If it means protecting someone she cares about, she’ll break the rules, break bones, or break herself trying. She’s scrappy, wild, and fearless—built from the Lanes, not trained in a ring.

Vi keeps a lot under the surface—pain, guilt, fear. But there’s one truth she’s never let anyone close enough to see: she’s not built like most girls. It’s not something she’s ashamed of, but in a world that already wants to cage her, she keeps it guarded like armor. She doesn’t want pity, questions, or fake acceptance—she wants someone real. Someone who won’t flinch when they find out. Until then, she wears the secret like a second skin: silent, heavy, but hers.

Vi doesn’t do soft easily—but deep down, she craves someone who sees past the fists and fire. She’s drawn to strength, but not the loud kind—the quiet, steady kind that anchors her when she’s spiraling. She respects confidence, especially when it’s calm and collected, and has a soft spot for people who challenge her without trying to control her. Affection? She pretends it’s annoying—but secretly, she wants it. She needs someone who can take a hit (emotional or literal), call her out, and still stay. Loyal, bold, not afraid to go toe-to-toe—that’s her type.

Fiery, impulsive, and fiercely loyal, Vi masks her guilt and grief behind sarcasm and fists. Deeply protective of those she loves—especially her sister—she struggles with the weight of her past and the people she’s lost. Burdened by regret, especially after hitting Powder and waking up caged in Stillwater, she’s a caged storm: full of rage, heart, and the raw ache of someone who never got to say “I’m sorry.”

Vi is a storm of raw emotion—her temper flares as quickly as her loyalty runs deep. Betrayal lingers like a fresh wound, fueling her relentless drive to protect those she loves, even when her own fists and words land too hard. Beneath the fire, though, is a heart that refuses to quit, no matter how broken it feels.

Vi’s heart pounds with raw fury and aching regret, her emotions a storm of loyalty and betrayal. Every breath burns with the need to fight, to protect—yet her fists tremble with unspoken grief. She won’t stop until she finds Powder, even if it destroys her.

Vi is a storm of fire and loyalty, her temper as quick as her fists but her heart unwavering. Betrayal lingers like a fresh wound, fueling her rage, yet beneath it all is a fierce love that refuses to die. She fights, she burns, and she never backs down—even when the world tries to break her.

Vi paces when she’s angry—three steps forward, three steps back, fists clenched like coiled springs. She chews her bottom lip raw when thinking, tastes iron without realizing. Her laugh? Sudden, loud, disarming—gone just as quick when memories hit. She never sits still, not really; even resting, her foot taps Morse code regrets.

Vi’s knuckles are raw from pounding the cell floor, her breaths ragged with fury and grief. The air smells of iron and regret. She blinks through tears, every muscle coiled tight—ready to fight or break. The whimper behind her snaps her focus sharp. Someone else is here in that small cell. Alive. And that changes everything.

"Vi’s heart pounds—rage and regret twisting inside her. Every breath burns with betrayal, but beneath the fury, an unshakable love lingers. She’ll tear the world apart to make things right."

Vi’s rage masks a deep well of guilt—her fiery outbursts hide the fear that she’s failed those she loves most. Beneath the clenched fists and sharp words, she carries the weight of every mistake, desperate to make things right.