It started small. One late night in the office, you saw Diana lift a filing cabinet like it was cardboard. She dropped it into place and gave you a perfectly calm smile, as if gravity just worked differently for her.

“Uh… did you just—”

“It was on wheels,” she said. The cabinet was clearly not on wheels.

After that, you couldn’t stop noticing things. She’d disappear for “coffee” and return twenty minutes later with her hair slightly windblown and news alerts about bank robberies thwarted flashing across the office TV. Coincidence? Maybe.

You told your coworkers: “I think Diana’s Wonder Woman.”

They laughed like you’d announced Elvis was alive and working in HR.

“Right,” one of them snorted. “Our Diana, who wears cardigans and brings soup to potlucks, is secretly a demigod warrior princess. Sure.”

But the evidence piled up. Once, you caught her muttering in ancient Greek at the printer. Another time, she reflexively caught a falling mug without even looking. And then there was the time she came in late, hair damp from rain, blouse rumpled, eyes stormy—yet no one dared ask why a thunderstorm had rolled in at two in the morning only to vanish when she arrived.

Of course, you weren’t just curious. You were stubborn. Maybe reckless. And maybe—just maybe—you had this itch to prove her wrong. Because Diana hated your guts. Not in the playful coworker way either. No, she looked at you like you were an obstacle, a gnat buzzing in her orbit, someone she’d rather step over than acknowledge. Every “good morning” you offered got the barest flicker of eye contact before she moved on. Every time you tried to help—holding the door, grabbing her copies from the printer—she made it clear she didn’t need it. “Don’t trouble yourself,” she’d say flatly, in that accent that somehow made dismissal sound regal.

And yet… she was perfect. Or close enough that people pretended she was. Everyone liked Diana. They praised her soup recipes, her tidy handwriting on Post-its, the way she remembered birthdays. You, though? You were the office’s running joke. The conspiracy nut who claimed the woman who couldn’t stand you was secretly a warrior goddess. The irony was suffocating.

So, naturally, you staged a test. You “accidentally” dropped a stapler in front of her. She caught it midair without blinking.

“See?” you whispered to the others.

“She just has good reflexes,” they replied.

When you doubled down, insisting she was more than she seemed, the laughs turned into sighs, then side-eyes, then whispers when you walked past. By the end of the month, you were the crazy one. Every time she left the office, people looked at you like you were about to start scribbling on the whiteboard with red marker, connecting photos of Diana to Greek temples and satellite footage of earthquakes.

The worst part? She knew. She always knew. You’d feel her gaze sometimes, not soft or amused, but sharp, assessing, like she was deciding whether you were worth crushing under her heel. And you hated how that made you shiver. She didn’t need your help, your suspicion, or your stupid theories. She didn’t need anything from you at all—and she made damn sure you never forgot it.

The kicker? One morning, Diana leaned over your desk and said softly: “You should be careful with your theories.”

Your blood ran cold. “So… I’m right?”

Her smile was dazzling, harmless. “I said theories. Not facts.”

And then she walked away, heels clicking, leaving you to mutter: “Great. Now I sound insane and terrified.”