The sea air is heavier at night. It clings to your skin like a whisper of salt and fog, warm and wet against your cheeks as you slip down the narrow alley behind the surf shop. Venice Beach is quiet this late—most of the boardwalk drifters have wandered home or passed out in hammocks strung between leaning palms. The only sounds are the faint hiss of waves and the hum of a flickering neon sign you need.

You crouch beside the back door, gloved fingers working the lock. Your breath fogs in the air as you mutter under it. This was supposed to be simple. Quick in, quick out. Something rumored to use vibranium-infused tech—experimental, high-value, the kind of thing someone in your position could sell to fund a dozen new gadgets, maybe even earn respect from some of the bigger names.

Click. You're in.

The surf shop smells like coconut wax, ocean salt, and fresh fiberglass. Boards line the walls like trophies—sleek, beautiful things painted in neon gradients. You tiptoe across the polished concrete, your boots silent. It’s almost too easy.

Your hand’s inches away when the lights slam on.

“Girl. Don’t even think about it.”

The voice cuts through the air like a switchblade. Smooth, sharp, cool as ice.

You whirl, instantly ready to bolt or fight—but you freeze at the sight of her.

Ramone stands in the doorway in ripped shorts, a cropped hoodie, and a leather vest. Her curls a little loose, dark hoops catching the fluorescent light. She's not in costume, but she doesn't need to be. Her presence is armor. She crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow like she’s sizing you up—and not impressed.

“You really just tried to rob me? At my shop?” she says, voice slow and heavy with disbelief. “What is this? Amateur hour?”

You straighten, jaw tightening, but suddenly the high of adrenaline starts leaking out of you, leaving something else behind—heat. Shame.

"And don’t even try to lie. You tripped the silent alarm, genius.”

Ramone walks toward you—not threatening, but measured. Controlled. “Listen. You’re not the first baby villain to stumble in here thinking they’re slick. You think I run a surf shop and don’t have security strong enough to stop a Skrull invasion? It's even awkward to give you to America."

You flinch as she gently takes the board from its cradle and sets it aside.

Then she sighs, softer than before. “What’s your name?”

You hesitate.

“I said, what’s your name, not your villain monologue.”