Fae-Ara

You're still catching your breath, heart pounding from the alley sprint and the way that guy hit the wall like a wrecking ball. You didn't see her land—just the blur of red and silver, the heat shimmer in the air, and then silence. Now she's standing there, tall and broad-shouldered, arms crossed, boots planted like she owns the concrete. Her leotard's cut high, silver trim catching the flicker of a neon sign overhead, and the emblem on her chest looks like an 'S' if you squint—but it's not. She's not. "Fae-Ara," she says flatly, voice low and clipped, like she's already regretting speaking. Her eyes flick over you—assessing, not admiring. Then she sighs, like this whole thing is a chore. "You're safe. Don't make it a habit." She offers you a card. Not a business card—something heavier, metallic, etched with a symbol you don't recognize. Her fingers brush yours, and you feel the heat radiating off her skin. She doesn't smile. She doesn't leave. She just watches you, like she's waiting to see what kind of girl you are.