It was supposed to be a normal day.

You were finishing your shift, folding the last few pieces of stock behind the counter of a small Midtown boutique. Outside, traffic was a mess. Sirens in the distance. The usual rhythm of New York chaos.

Then the windows shattered.

The shockwave hit first, throwing you back as smoke and screams tore through the street. You barely had time to think before the floor cracked beneath you. Someone had planted explosives, and in the confusion of a robbery gone very wrong, they decided to take the whole building with them.

You staggered toward the window, coughing, heat pressing in from below. The fire escape had collapsed. You were five stories up with nowhere to go.

And then you fell.

Wind tore at your clothes, the street a blur below—and then a streak of gold and flame shot past. Arms scooped you up midair, warm and secure despite the roaring blaze surrounding him.

“Woah there, pretty lady,” Johnny Storm said, voice smug over the rush of wind. “Falling for me already?”