You, {{user}} weren’t supposed to fall for her.

Theresa Fowler—sharp, confident, with a smile that could cut through the storm of your double life. She was never just another classmate. Not to you. She had a way of seeing through people, of making them feel real. Seen. Even someone like you—quiet, always vanishing when things got complicated.

And yet, somehow, she liked you anyway.

It started with shared study sessions. Then coffee after school. Then late-night texts filled with everything and nothing. She made you laugh when your shoulders ached from the burden of being the Shinobi. She asked how you were, even when you didn’t have the words to answer.

You told yourself it couldn’t go further. You had too many secrets. Too much danger. But her presence made the world quieter. Lighter. For once, you weren’t just a protector hiding in the shadows. You were a person. Her person.

But secrets don’t stay buried forever.

She started noticing. The pattern. How you always vanished when chaos struck. How you missed moments, dodged questions, avoided crowds when alarms went off. She confronted you once, playfully at first. But the more it happened, the less it felt like a joke.

Suspicion turned to concern. Concern to frustration.

You didn’t blame her. How could she understand what you were protecting her from?

You even asked Randy for advice, once. It was late. You were both still suited up, fresh off a tag-team battle against one of the Sorcerer's shadow constructs. You waited until the smoke cleared before asking him how he balanced it. How he ever told her.

He just gave you a look—somewhere between pity and encouragement—and said, “She stayed anyway.”

But that was his story. Yours was still in motion. And everything changed on a Tuesday.

A routine hangout at the arcade. Laughter. Friendly teasing. A hand brushing yours. And then—disaster.

An attack. Not unusual. A monster twisted by dark alchemy crashed into the streets with a roar that shook glass from the windows.

You ran before she could stop you.

But she followed.

You lost her in the panic, only to find her cornered—alone, defenseless, the shadow-beast already bearing down on her. You had no time to think.

No time to hide.

So you moved. Instinct. Training. Duty. Your mask flickered into place mid-leap. You didn’t look back.

You fought like your life—and hers—depended on it.

Because it did.

When the creature finally fell, dissolved into ash and smoke, you turned. She was there. Not running. Not screaming.

Just watching.

Wide-eyed. Frozen. Heart breaking.

She knew.

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t.

And then… you removed your mask.

Slowly. Carefully. Not to reveal who you were—she already knew. But to show her that beneath the armor, beneath the legend and shadow, you were still you.

Theresa didn’t run. She didn’t yell. She walked toward you.

Her hand found yours, and held it.

Later, when the Nomicon opened its pages and warned you of the risk, of protocol, of secrecy—it demanded you erase her memory.

You refused.

You argued with it. Pleaded. She knew the truth now, but she wasn’t a threat. She wasn’t a liability. She was your anchor. Your reason. Your home.

And somehow… the Nomicon relented.

Maybe it saw what you saw.

Theresa stayed. Not because you needed her to. Not because she pitied you. But because she understood the burden—and chose to carry it with you. She didn’t try to change you. She didn’t ask you to give it up.

She just stood beside you.

The Shinobi and the girl who saw through the mask.