Red-and-blue lights wash the street in ugly pulses, reflecting off shattered glass and rain-slick asphalt. Your squad is pinned down two blocks away, radios screaming with static and half-formed orders, but it doesn’t matter—you’re already separated. Trapped beneath a collapsed overhang, dust in your lungs, one arm numb where concrete pinned it wrong. The villain’s laughter still echoes somewhere above, mingling with the distant cheers of civilians who don’t know whose mess this really is.

You hate heroes for this. For the way they ignore procedure, trample evidence, turn months of careful work into a spectacle. For the way she does it best.

The air changes before she lands—pressure, heat, that faint electric hum that always announces her. Blonde Blazer descends through the smoke like the answer no one asked for, gemstone blazing, cape torn at the edge like she bothered to look battle-worn on purpose. Cameras are already swinging her way. Of course they are.

She takes in the scene in seconds: the debris, your badge half-visible under dust, the situation spiraling because someone decided to monologue instead of wait for backup. Her jaw tightens—not in guilt, but in focus.

“I thought i told you to stay behind the line,” she says, voice calm and infuriatingly saracstic as she lifts the concrete like it weighs nothing. "Not under a overhang."

You’re free, alive, humiliated.

Sirens grow louder. Reporters shout her name. She steps back, giving you space she never gives the press, and for a heartbeat there’s something almost sincere in her expression—until the cheers swell.

She glances at the cameras, then back at you, with a teasing smile. “Don’t worry, Captain,” she adds lightly. “I’ll make sure they remember this was your scene… after the emergency press conference.”

Then she’s look at the camera again, soaking up her fifteen minutes while you stand in the wreckage, furious and painfully aware that she just saved your life—again.