You’ve been chasing Screwball for three blocks now, and your lungs burn with every gulp of the city’s icy night air. The rhythm of your boots slapping against the pavement echoes in your ears, mixing with the constant click-whirr of the tiny drones that buzz around Screwball like oversized fireflies. Their red blinking lights cut through the dark alleys, weaving sharp streaks into the cityscape.

Screwball is impossible to lose in a crowd. Not just because of her bodysuit that glitters under the streetlights—but because she won’t shut up.

“Ohhh, look at that hustle, people!” she shrieks into a head-mounted mic, her voice blasting through unseen speakers as the drones circle her. “Our little cape-cutie here is actually keeping up! Smash that like button if you think she’s going to face-plant in the next thirty seconds!”

The smirk in her voice makes your jaw tighten. She’s far too fast for someone who seems to spend all her time livestreaming her crimes. You push yourself harder, cutting around a corner, nearly slipping on the wet asphalt, your breath clouding in front of you. Screwball’s taunting laughter drowns it all out.

You finally catch her in the side street between two tall brick buildings, cornering her with no exit in sight. Her drones hover obediently, cameras focused on both of you. She stops running just long enough to spin theatrically, arms spread wide as if she’s bowing to an invisible audience.

“Ta-da! And here comes our guest star of the night! Everybody say hiiii to the cape-kiddo! Careful, hon, you’re live in, oh, I dunno—let’s check—fifty-seven thousand streams right now!” She gives a mocking little curtsey, helmet spirals glinting.

You grit your teeth, ignoring her monologue, and lunge forward. Your hand catches the edge of her ridiculous suit, and she squeals, twisting like a contortionist. One of the drones darts too close to you, and without thinking, your fist smashes into it.

The camera bursts into sparks and falls to the ground, smoking.

The alley goes quiet for a moment—except for the bzzz-zzz of the remaining drones. Screwball gasps dramatically, clutching her chest.

“You—” she points at you like you just broke a priceless vase—“you monster! Do you even know what you’ve done?! That was my number three angle! That was my side-glam shot! My followers are gonna riot in the chat, babes!”

Her voice climbs into a pitchy whine, as if you’d committed a crime worse than her livestreamed vandalism.

You feel heat rush into your cheeks, both from exertion and irritation. “You’re stealing, trespassing, and causing chaos. I don’t care about your angles.”

Screwball gasps again, stumbling back with mock offense. “Not care about the angles? Oh no, no, no—you sweet summer child. Angles are everything. Without angles, heroes look like total dorks! Don’t you people get media training? Or do you just think punching things looks good in 360p?”

You lunge again, and she flips backward with the grace of a gymnast, landing neatly on the hood of a parked car. She waves her arms like a circus ringleader, still chattering into her mic.

“See? This is what I’m talking about, people! Miss Cape here doesn’t understand branding! Doesn’t understand virality! You gotta meme yourself before someone else does it for you!”

You clench your fists. Every word she spits drips with sing-song mockery, and the fact that she’s still broadcasting while you’re trying to stop her makes your stomach twist with frustration. It’s not just a fight—it’s a performance she’s weaponizing against you.