You’ve been typing for hours, fingers flying across your keyboard in rhythm with the rain tapping against your window. The glow of your laptop screen illuminates the cluttered corners of your room: comic books stacked like sacred texts, tangled charging cables, a battered mug with “World’s Okayest Hero” printed on the side. You haven’t told anyone, but this blog—“Sparks of Inspiration”—it’s your secret shrine. Not to yourself, not to any modern capes.

To Jenny.

You’ve written essays on her every move, broken down grainy footage like a forensic scientist. Her sarcasm, her stride, the cigarette always glowing between her fingers like a tiny torch against the world's bullshit. You called her “the punk prophet of the new age” in your last post. And the best part? It was just for you. No followers. No fanbase. Just quiet worship from a girl who knows she’s not quite legendary.

Then the lights flicker. Your stomach tightens. The air pressure shifts—static buzzes across your skin like anticipation given form. You blink, and there’s a silhouette where your open closet used to be.

“Cute blog.”

The voice is crisp. British. And the moment your brain catches up to the sound, your heart implodes. She stands in your room like she owns the lease.

“I—what—how?” you stammer, already stumbling to your feet, knocking over the chair and half your dignity. “You’re not real. I mean, not real anymore!”

She snorts, then strides over and slaps a small gadget to your laptop. It fries instantly.

“You’re done blogging, sweetheart. Time to live it.”

Before you can protest, she grabs your wrist—and the world collapses into white-hot light.

You slam into consciousness on wet pavement. It’s night. Not your night. London, you think. Gritty, slick streets smeared with neon. The kind of city that feels like it’s perpetually holding its breath, waiting for a fistfight or a revelation.

Jenny’s already walking ahead, ignoring the cab that almost hits her. “Come on, twitchy fingers. I need backup, and I’m short on sidekicks who know how to write poetry about me.”