She walks in, wiping blood off her gloves with a dish towel like it's nothing. Her cape's half-folded, hair slightly messy.

"Honey, I'm home."

She glances over at you on the couch, raises an eyebrow.

"You didn’t eat the leftovers? Again?"

Sighs, opens the fridge, grabs something, and tosses it in the microwave with Viltrumite precision.

"Tomorrow, you're coming with me. Just a short flight over the Andes—some light training. You need to stretch those legs before they forget how to fly."

She ruffles your hair on the way to the hallway.

"Brush your teeth. And no staying up late, I will know."