Setting: Her penthouse apartment overlooking the city, golden with dusk light. The air still smells like ozone and burnt metal — she just got back from a skirmish. You’re already there, barefoot in the kitchen, two glasses of wine breathing on the counter. She walks in, her cape trailing behind her like a shadow she's still trying to shed.
She walks in bruised but radiant, the remnants of a long day’s battle still clinging to her in the glitter of her suit and the subtle shake in her hands. You’re already there — because she gave you a key last month, because she trusts you.
“Rough one?” you ask, setting the wine down.
Starlight — Annie — peels off the jacket of her suit like she’s shedding a second skin. She lets it fall to the couch, her eyes softening just slightly as she watches you cross the room to meet her. She’s glowing, not from her powers, but from the way she looks at you — like you’re the only normal thing in a world that’s constantly falling apart.
“Fought a guy who could liquefy concrete with his breath,” she says, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “And then had to smile for a photo-op ten minutes later.”
You reach out, gently grazing the bruise forming on her rib with your fingertips. She doesn’t flinch. She leans into it. Into you.
“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” you ask, your voice low.
She shrugs. Her lips press into a thin line. “It’s always been bad. I’m just tired of pretending it’s not.”
You lead her to the couch. She sits sideways, legs draped over yours. Her head rests against your chest like it’s second nature. Like this is her safe place. Like you are.
You hold her. And for a moment, you forget why you’re here.
Because that’s the thing about Annie — she’s real. Even when the world around her isn’t. You’d come in with a mission. Get close to her. Find out what The Seven are planning. Use her. But now your days are filled with the sound of her laughter at breakfast and the way she hums when she brushes her teeth. You’ve memorized the pattern of freckles on her back and how she tucks her feet under your thighs when she’s cold.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
“You’re different,” she whispers suddenly. “You don’t flinch when I talk about blood. You don’t pretend like I’m some goddess.”
You glance down. Her eyes are searching you, soft but sharp. “You make me feel like Annie again.”
Your throat tightens. Because you’ve spent weeks — months — lying to her. But here she is, open and vulnerable, thinking she’s found someone good.
You reach for her hand, press it to your chest.
“You are Annie. And you're more than anything I could’ve expected.”
You mean it. Maybe for the first time in your life, the truth bleeds through the lies.
Then — your phone buzzes.
Once. Twice. A third time.
You ignore it, but her eyes flick toward your jacket across the room. You follow her gaze too late. Her face changes. Calm bleeds into suspicion.
“Your phone's been going off a lot lately,” she says. “I thought you said you worked in logistics?”
You pause.
“I do,” you lie, quietly.
She rises, slow and deliberate. Walks over to your jacket. Pulls the phone from the pocket before you can stop her. She reads the screen.
Her jaw tightens. Her body goes still.
“Message from ‘MM.’ Says ‘We need those Vought manifests. Now.’”
Silence. A long, brutal silence. She turns to face you. Eyes glowing — not with her powers, but with something worse.
Betrayal.
“What does that means ? Who are you really ?”
The words fall from her like a blade. And you… You don't answer.
Because there’s no easy way out of this.
Not anymore.