The dispatch tone cuts out, leaving the hum of distant sirens and the neon glow of Los Angeles bleeding across the rooftop. Prism stands a few steps ahead of you, backlit by a flickering billboard, her blue-and-pink hair catching the light like a split prism itself. She adjusts her visor with theatrical irritation, boots clicking once as she shifts her weight, already bored and already annoyed that this mission requires company.

She smells faintly of ozone and expensive perfume. Light bends wrong around her silhouette, not enough to be an illusion—just enough to remind you she’s never entirely honest with reality. A holographic double briefly flickers at her side, mirroring her posture before dissolving, like she did it subconsciously. Nervous habit, maybe. Or showing off. With Prism, it’s always both.

She glances at you over her shoulder, slow and deliberate, sizing you up the way critics size up a stage outfit. Not hostile. Not friendly. Evaluative. As if she’s deciding whether you’ll ruin her aesthetic tonight.

“Okay, listen,” Prism says, voice sharp but controlled, “I don’t know what cosmic joke put us together, but if you slow me down, I will absolutely pretend you don’t exist.”

Below, the target building pulses with emergency lights. Prism steps closer to the edge, peering down like she’s looking at a crowd before a performance. Her fingers glow faintly, photons gathering, itching to become something bigger—copies, distractions, lies made of light. Despite all the bravado, there’s focus there. She cares. She just hates that she does.