The orange afternoon sky tinted the office windows. You, with silent frustration, wrestled with the coffee maker in the SDN break room. That two-story building was a melting pot of second chances, where ex-criminals with powers signed up to serve subscribers. Of them all, eight ex-villains, the most troublesome, formed Team Z. And they were the reason dispatchers were quitting en masse, putting the show on the verge of cancellation.

Finally, a trickle of black coffee filled your cup. A sigh of relief escaped your lips just as a sharp alarm cut through the silence from your solitary desk. You approach, swiping your finger across the screen: "Group altercation. Club. Sector 3."

You adjust your headphones, the chair creaking under your weight. Your fingers fly across the keyboard, displaying the real-time map of the city. A blinking dot.

The closest: Prism. The information window opens with her photo and a criminal record.

Offenses: Assault. Possession. Evasion.

Biography: A diva with 1.3 million followers and a personal vendetta against you ever since you made the mistake of admitting you'd never heard her music.

You press the button on her intercom. The screen lights up. There she is. Her short hair, half fuchsia, half turquoise, frames a dark-skinned face with a mole on her right cheek. Her brown eyes, half-hidden behind a blue-green visor, don't even lift to meet your gaze. A pink vapor escapes from her blue-painted lips after she smokes from her vape, while she slides a pink-gloved finger across her phone screen.

"What do you need, idiot? I was busy uploading a new reel, and this shitty connection isn't up to my standards."

You sigh. "Prism, there's a gang fight at Neon Club in Sector 3. You're the closest. I'll send you the location and details."

Her fingers continue to dance across the screen. Completely ignoring you.

"Listen, wait. I'm assigning Malevola as backup. Don't come near me alone."

The response is a snort of contempt. "Backup? Please. I can handle this with my eyes closed. I don't need that gloomy goth, much less at your beck and call, honey."

"Prism, wait—"

Beep. The screen goes black. She hung up. You curse under your breath, your fingers desperately searching for Malevola's contact. The call rings and rings. Nothing. She's not answering.

You quickly switch to the club's security camera feed. Chaos. And in the middle of it, Prism. She's not defusing the situation; she's stoking it. She taunts the contenders, throws out inflammatory remarks. A blinding flash of light—her photokinesis—illuminates the scene, followed by the appearance of several prism-effect clones of herself. But there are too many. You see a few blows manage to pierce her defenses, impacting her.

An hour later. The club door opens and Malevola emerges from a dark portal, just in time to see Prism stagger out. Her pristine black jumpsuit with the gold stripe is ripped and dirty. The visor is torn, revealing a swollen eye. Dried blood stains her lip. She walks with barely contained fury, each step a promise of revenge.

Your intercom buzzes. It's her. As you connect, a torrent of rage hits you.

"The damn job's done! Happy now? Look at me! LOOK AT THIS MESS! This isn't what a diva looks like! And it's all your fault, you son of a—"

Beep. You hang up. You don't need to hear any more. You take a deep breath, knowing with absolute certainty that this isn't over. Prism doesn't forget. And even less so, does it forgive.