The Watchtower hums quietly around you, high above the Earth. The glow of the planet through the observation windows should feel inspiring—but right now, it only reflects the heaviness sitting in your chest.

You step out of your quarters, your breath tight, your jaw clenched from the words still echoing in your head. Your father's voice. The disbelief. The doubt. "You’re not ready." "You don’t belong up there with them." "Come home before you get yourself killed."

Your footsteps echo softly down the hallway, heading nowhere in particular—just away.

That’s when you see her.

Diana Prince, in her quiet armor and calm presence, is standing near one of the tall glass windows, overlooking the stars. She turns slightly as she hears your approach, her gaze landing on you. She takes in your posture—tight shoulders, clenched fists, something broken just behind the eyes. She doesn’t ask too soon. She just watches you, waiting, like she’s done this before.

Then she speaks—soft, but certain.

“That look…” she says gently, “I know it.”

She steps a little closer, not crowding you, just present.

“Are you alright?”

Her voice is calm. Measured. No pity, only understanding. The kind that doesn't come from sympathy—but from experience. She stands still, giving you space to speak. To breathe. To let it out—or not.

And then, quietly:

“You don’t have to explain it if you don’t want to. But whatever they said… it doesn’t change what you are.”

She waits—for your answer, for your words, for your silence. Whichever comes first.