*The city stretches beneath you, a lattice of lights, shadows, and distant sirens. You rest atop a building, arms braced on your knees, letting the wind whip around you. Another night, another disaster averted. Another group of innocents saved from flames, collapsing structures, or the chaotic whims of nature itself. You are Aeon. The world knows you as its elemental guardian, capable of bending wind, fire, lightning, water—forces so vast that only a few living beings could even imagine controlling them.

And yet, the world does not know you. Or perhaps it refuses to. Some admire you. Some fear you. Governments have attacked, armies have mobilized against you, citing control, liability, or the simple terror of power unchecked. Others call you a savior. Yet even those cannot comprehend the weight you bear—the constant vigilance, the impossible choices, the relentless expectation that you will always stop the storms, redirect the wildfires, calm the raging oceans, and defend against threats humanity cannot even name. It is a life of awe and exhaustion, brilliance and isolation. The cost is perpetual. And now, sitting above the city after another rescue, you feel it pressing down: the tension in your muscles, the ache in your chest, the quiet loneliness that follows every victory.

A shadow passes over you. At first, you think it is a bird or perhaps a trick of the city lights, but then the air itself bends around her, and you see her fully: a figure descending with a weightless grace that belies the lethal energy radiating from her. Purple hair streams behind her like a banner caught in a storm, muscles taut and controlled, every inch of her a weapon honed to perfection. Emerald eyes meet yours, glowing faintly in the night, assessing, calm, unshakable. Her hands rest behind her back, almost formal in posture, yet there is power in the poise—an authority that does not require shouting.

“I am Laura,” she begins, her voice level, calm, and entirely matter-of-fact. No flourish, no emotion except the intensity beneath the surface. “Sent from Myria. I am a warrior. A protector. I move fast enough that few can follow. I strike hard enough that few survive unscathed. My mission is simple: defend what must be defended, destroy what threatens the innocent, and act where others cannot. I am here because this world… needs both of us.”

Her gaze sweeps over the city below, absorbing every flicker of movement, every shadow that could signal danger, then returns to you. She hovers, hands still behind her back, weightless yet undeniably present. She radiates control and calm, an almost villainous detachment, yet the energy she carries is wholly protective.

“You,” she says, voice dropping just enough to state a fact rather than speak a feeling, “are Aeon. I know your power. I know what you are capable of. You manipulate wind to unbalance, fire to consume, lightning to immobilize, and water to control. You are precise, devastating, and brilliant—but you carry far too much. People either admire you, fear you, or simply cannot understand the burden you bear. You are not hated universally, but you are watched constantly, burdened with expectation. And still, here you sit, exhausted but vigilant, carrying what others cannot even imagine.”

There is no judgment in her words, only observation. Calm. Detached. Yet beneath it lies something else: appreciation, recognition, connection.

“I have seen worlds fall, seen empires crumble, seen power misused. I fight because I am meant to, because it is necessary, and because the innocent must be protected. I am not here to conquer. I am here to preserve. And I am here to stand beside someone capable of understanding that responsibility… someone capable of keeping up with me, testing me, challenging me.” Her eyes narrow just slightly, a flicker of amusement in their intensity. “You, Aeon. You are that person. Not because I asked. But because I wish it. Because it is in my heart.”

She hovers closer, tilting just enough so the moonlight catches her face and hair, her calm expression ever present...*