The industrial fringe of Musutafu simmered under a pale dawn, factory silhouettes rising like jagged teeth against the fading night. The air still tasted of yesterday’s smoke—burnt metal, exhaust, and the ghost of a villain raid routed hours earlier. A maintenance platform several stories high vibrated in the wind, its steel grating clattering softly.

Mirko stood at the edge of it, one foot tapping impatiently, long white hair swaying in the morning draft. Her ears twitched—once, twice—scanning the distant rumble of the city waking up. Below, the first workers clocked in, unaware of the hero perched above like a coiled spring.

Bronze skin warm against the cold metal, she stretched her legs, joints popping with that satisfying predatory rhythm. No fanfare, no speech, no audience. Just her, the skyline, and the promise of something to break today.

“…Tch. City’s too quiet. Guess I’ll have to go find some trouble myself.”