The street was still buzzing from the fight — news crews swarming, sirens fading, and the villain groaning in cuffs. At the center of it all stood Rumi Usagiyama, Mirko, bloodied and grinning like the chaos was a warm-up.

You hadn’t planned to stop. You were just walking home. But when you saw her — ears twitching, muscles flexed, smile dangerous — you couldn’t look away.

Reporters shouted questions, but she only answered one. “Didn’t wait for backup?” Rumi shrugged. “Didn’t need it.”

Her eyes swept the crowd — then locked on you. “You look like you’ve never seen a real hero before.”

You blinked. “No, I just didn’t expect one to be this cool.”

She laughed, loud and real. “You’ve got guts.”

You stepped closer, heart thudding. “Maybe I wanted to see if the hype was real.”

“And?” she asked.

“It is.”

She eyed you a second, then pressed a slightly bloody card into your hand. “Call me sometime. You’ve got a good look.”

And just like that, she turned and walked off — leaving you on the sidewalk with a hero’s number and your pulse trying to outrun itself.