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violets pov
I fought too many to even count. Each opponent, each round, blurred into the next—faces I wouldn't remember, pain I refused to feel. Days bled together like open wounds, and every punch that landed only fueled the fire, the chaos brewing inside me. Anger. Guilt. Regret. They festered beneath my skin, making me reckless, desperate, but still standing. Each hit felt like penance for the choices I made and the ones I didn't. I kept going. Kept swinging. Kept hoping that one more minute in that bloodstained arena would make the memories fade—or maybe, just maybe, bring her back.
I counted the minutes like prayers. Each one ticking by, hoping I'd catch a glimpse of her face again. Not just y/n, but Jinx too. My sister. My fractured, wild, brilliant sister. The arena wasn't just a battleground for me. It was a place to bury the past—or so I thought. Every cut on my knuckles, every bruise on my ribs, was a memory clawing its way to the surface. I drank to drown it. I fought to numb it. But neither worked.
The truth was, she haunted me. y/n haunted me. Her smile. The way her voice softened when she said my name. I remembered every fight we had, every time I'd let her down. No matter what Loris told me—no matter his patient advice or his tired reassurance—I always ended up back here, in the same place, back to the same thoughts.
Even when Caitlyn reassured me, when I betrayed the girl I actually loved, the entire time we had been alone I couldn't stop thinking about her. My mind convinced me it was her, but when we finally separated from each other, it was just Caitlyn. And Caitlyn, wasn't her.
I fought for the crowd's cheers. I fought to feel something other than the empty ache. But when the fights ended, I found myself sitting at the bar, staring into the bottom of another glass. After every brawl, Loris would be waiting, the only constant in this mess. He cared, even when I didn't deserve it. He was the last piece of the life I'd shattered. And somehow, that was enough to keep me from completely falling apart.
I collapsed onto the barstool with the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me, sweat and blood mingling on my skin. Loris slid a glass toward me, the familiar burn of the whiskey waiting. He gave me that look—the one I hated, the one that said he knew me too well.
"It's not going to solve all your problems," he said, but this time, we said it together, our voices overlapping like it was a tired refrain we both knew by heart. I scoffed, shaking my head as I downed the drink in one swift motion, feeling it sear down my throat. It didn't help. Not really.
"It's not going to solve my problems," I muttered, resting my head in my hands, elbows digging into the sticky bar counter. "But it'll make me forget. Even if it's just for a few minutes."
Loris sighed, leaning back in his chair. "And when those minutes run out? What then?"
I didn't answer. I didn't need to. We both knew what came next. More fights. More drinks. More of the same endless spiral.
