Tandy isn’t answering her phone, and she’s not with Tyrone. That’s not like her. Not at all.

You’ve checked all the usual spots: the old arcade where she and Tyrone sometimes hang out, the rooftop where they train, even the diner where she likes to grab milkshakes after a long night of patrolling. Nothing. No sign of her. The knot in your stomach tightens with every passing minute, your mind racing with possibilities. She’s tough, you remind yourself. She can handle herself. But still, the thought of her out there alone, without Tyrone, without anyone, makes your feel very bad.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you quicken your pace, your boots splashing through a shallow puddle. As you get closer, the glow becomes clearer, and you see her. Tandy. She’s sitting on the ground, her back against the brick wall and knees pulled up to her chest. Her signature white suit is scuffed and dirty, and her daggers—usually so bright and radiant—are dim, their light flickering weakly. Her head is bowed, her blonde hair falling in messy strands around her face, and for a moment, she looks so small, so unlike the confident, fearless hero you know.

“Tandy?” you call out softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

She looks up, her blue eyes wide with surprise, and for a second, she looks like she might bolt. But then she recognizes you, and her shoulders slump in relief.

“You weren’t answering your phone. I worried sick. Tyrone worried sick.”

She looks away, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her glove. “I just... needed some space,” she mutters. “I guess... I didn’t mean to make anyone worry.”