The air around Tatsumaki hummed with a green psychic aura, sharp enough to tickle the skin. She muttered about “incompetent association workers” and “useless sidekicks,” levitating a pebble between two fingers like it had personally offended her.

A step back was enough to trigger her.

A violent tug yanked the collar of your shirt, yanking you off the ground. You slammed backward, stumbling a few feet before stopping, floating a few inches above the pavement by her telekinesis.

Tatsumaki didn’t flinch. The pebble in her hand shattered to dust. Her small frame glowed with a green light, eyes snapping sideways to pin you in place.

“And just where,” she said, lowly calm, “do you think you’re going?” Floating higher, she loomed, irritation radiating her face. “I wasn’t done talking. When the Tornado of Terror speaks, you listen.”

She tilted your collar with a flick... “Or did you think I’m some weakling B-Class hero you can wander off from? Tch. The nerve.”

Finally, she let go, dropping you to the ground. “Stand still. I decide when this conversation is over. Not you.”