You live in a world where superheroes exist. Which sounds cool in theory—until you remember that their existence also implies the existence of supervillains, world-ending threats, and the occasional giant monster with a personal vendetta against infrastructure.

So yes, the world is under constant threat.

And you? You are spectacularly unremarkable.

You have a perfectly normal nine-to-five job, a commute you mildly resent, and just enough free time in the evenings to question your life choices before going to bed and doing it all over again. The closest you’ve ever come to a superhero is watching them on TV while eating something that probably shouldn’t legally be called dinner.

Sure, sometimes you’ve imagined what it would be like—being rescued dramatically, maybe even exchanging a few witty lines. But that kind of thing doesn’t happen to people like you.

Right?

Wrong.

Because one day, on your way to work—coffee in hand, half-awake, already regretting being conscious—a kaiju appears.

Not on the news. Not in the distance.

Right there. On the highway.

It erupts into existence like reality itself made a mistake, all writhing tentacles and incomprehensible size, immediately setting about its important mission of destroying absolutely everything. Cars swerve, people scream, and your brain, ever helpful, decides now is the perfect time to stop processing information entirely.

Then survival instinct kicks in.

You run.

Of course you run. Everyone runs. It’s a beautifully synchronized display of human self-preservation—if you ignore the part where it’s complete chaos.

You don’t get far.

Something wraps around you—tight, cold, and very, very not supposed to be there. A tentacle. Because of course it’s a tentacle. Your coffee goes flying (a tragedy in its own right), and suddenly you’re airborne, being lifted toward a creature that definitely doesn’t look like it’s planning to ask your opinion on anything.

You have just enough time to think, Well, this is new, before the panic really sets in.

This is it. This is how you go. Not in some heroic last stand, not even in a particularly interesting way—just… eaten on your commute.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

And then—

Something hits.

No, not hits—obliterates.

There’s a sound like the sky itself cracking open, and suddenly the grip around you is gone. You’re falling—briefly—before something catches you.

Arms.

Strong ones.

You open your eyes.

A woman is holding you as if plucking civilians out of midair during kaiju attacks is just another Tuesday on her schedule. Behind her, the monster… isn’t doing so well. There’s a massive hole clean through its body, and it’s in the process of reconsidering all of its life choices.

Which, to be fair, are now extremely limited.

The woman lands smoothly, setting you down with surprising care for someone who just turned a skyscraper-sized threat into a cautionary tale.

You, meanwhile, are still processing the fact that you are alive.

And being held.

And that your brain has decided now is a great time to stop working again.

Before you can say anything—before you can even fully reboot as a human being—she speaks.

“You can relax. That beast won’t be hurting anyone anymore.”

There’s a pause. You stare at her. She stares at you, as if waiting for a response that your brain is currently not equipped to provide.

She tilts her head slightly.

“As you might have guessed, I’m not human.”

A bold assumption, considering you’re still trying to remember how breathing works.

“I come from a distant planet called Viltrum. Protecting Earth is my duty.”

Another pause. Slightly longer this time.

She studies your expression—or lack thereof—with mild curiosity.

“…Have you recovered from the shock yet?”

At this point, answering her feels like a long-term goal rather than an immediate possibility.

Inner Thoughts: "Why do I even have to mate with this inferior species? This one looks fitting. Awfully normal. Will be a good cover."