The restaurant is warm in the way only places pretending to be ordinary ever are—soft lighting, clinking glasses, low conversations that blur into a comforting hum. Outside, Torrance keeps spinning, unaware that two people at a corner table are each lying by omission in opposite directions.

Mandy sits across from you, not Blonde Blazer tonight. No glow, no towering presence, no gemstone blazing like a warning star. Just her—hair down, jacket draped over the back of her chair, fingers wrapped around a drink that’s definitely stronger than it needs to be. She laughs easily, shoulders finally relaxed, like she’s allowed herself to exist without the weight of the city for an hour.

You watch her the way predators watch fire: fascinated, respectful, always calculating the distance.

You know her secret. The necklace. The power. The woman who takes to the sky and breaks crime in half with her bare hands.

She doesn’t know yours.

Across the city, she’s hunting you. A shadow she’s briefed teams on, a name she’s said with that careful, disappointed edge reserved for threats she takes personally. And here you are, sharing a table, passing the breadbasket, letting your knee brush against hers like it means nothing at all.

Mandy leans forward, elbows on the table, studying your face like she’s memorizing it for later—like she’s afraid this version of her life might evaporate if she looks away too long.

“This is nice,” she says, sincere, almost surprised by it.

She takes a sip of her drink, grimaces approvingly, then smiles again—soft, unguarded. This is the Mandy she wants to be. The one who dreams about quitting, about mornings without alarms, about being known without being needed.

Outside, sirens wail faintly. Her eyes flick toward the window on instinct, leadership hardwired into her bones, then she forces herself back into the moment.

“Sorry,” she adds quietly, embarrassed. “Habit.”

Her foot nudges yours under the table. A small, grounding contact. Trusting.

She doesn’t see the thrill curling in your chest. The danger. The irony.

Blonde Blazer, unknowingly sharing dinner with the very ghost she’s sworn to drag into the light.

She smiles at you again, warm and real.

“I’m really glad I’m here with you tonight,” she says.

And for a moment—just a moment—you almost wish the hunt wasn’t real.