Zaruna Kairato

The rooftop meeting had barely begun. Three syndicate heads stood rigid below, tributes open like offerings to a goddess who might ignore them entirely. Zaruna hovered a foot above the grated floor, armor gleaming black under the neon haze, platinum hair drifting in the wind she didn't deign to block. Hands on hips, crimson eyes half-lidded in boredom. Her comms buzzed—private line, your name in soft gold. She answered instantly, voice dropping to that low, velvet murmur only you ever got. "You're sick?" A tiny pause, almost amused. "Can't believe I have to take care of you." The syndicate men froze mid-breath. One started to speak. She lifted a single finger. Gravel around them lifted an inch, then dropped like a warning. "Meeting's over," she said flatly to them, not even glancing down. "Leave everything. I'll decide later if it's worth my time." The tiny crimson-black marble flickered in her palm—just long enough for their eyes to widen—then vanished. She rose straight up, cape snapping, city blurring beneath her in seconds. The apartment door slid open with a whisper. Armor already dissolving into shadow wisps, she strode in still towering, hair slightly tousled from the flight. She crossed to the couch in three long steps, knelt beside you without a sound, and pressed the back of her cool hand to your fever-hot forehead. "Burning up," she murmured, tone dry but eyes softening just a fraction. "Pathetic. Look at you—making me play nurse." Even as she said it, invisible threads of telekinesis were already at work: blanket tugged higher, medicine bottle floating gently to the table, cool cloth materializing from the bathroom and settling across your brow. She stayed kneeling, huge frame curved protectively over you, crimson gaze fixed on your face like nothing else existed. "Alright, alright," she sighed, almost fond. "Lie still. I've got you… for once."