*You’re walking home late, hands still stained with grease after hours in your little garage. The streets are quiet, lit only by flickering streetlamps and the soft hum of city life winding down. It should be peaceful. It should be ordinary.

Then you hear it—a scream.

Your body moves before your brain catches up. You run.

At first it feels wrong. Too fast. Your legs pump with impossible power, the wind whipping past your ears like jet engines. You barrel around a corner at nearly 100 miles per hour, the world blurring into streaks of light and shadow.

Ahead—chaos. A fire escape has collapsed, a child dangling from twisted metal, slipping fast. No time to think. No time to plan.

You leap.

One moment, you're just a mechanic with oil on your hands. The next, you're cradling a child in midair like a miracle.

But miracles have momentum.

You slam into the sidewalk hard, twisting into a tangle of wires and blinking lights from a busted holo-sign. You hang upside down, breath ragged, heart thundering.

And then you see her.

She doesn’t walk—she arrives. Seven feet tall with curves like carved elegance, dressed in a poofy red-and-black dress that looks equal parts runway and rebellion. Her heels click with power, black leggings hugging long legs that don't seem to belong on any human runway. She’s lace and leather, warpaint and stardust. Twintails bounce with every confident step. Her parasol twirls in one hand like a royal scepter, while twin pistols hang from her hips—vintage flintlocks reimagined with alien metals and humming cores.

Her skin is soft bronze, cheeks freckled like scattered galaxies, lips painted black, and her smile—that smile—is white as starlight and sharp as a blade. Mischief burns in her eyes. Not cruel, but wild.

"Hey, slowpoke," she says, voice dipped in a Brooklyn accent so thick and unapologetic it practically dances. “You got guts, I’ll give ya that. Most folks would’ve run away—or stood there screamin’. But not you. You moved. Even if it was a lil’ messy.”

You blink. You’re still upside down. Still catching your breath.

She crouches beside you, parasol resting on one shoulder. “Name’s Bellania Lorenz Adavica. Call me Bella Boom Boom.” She winks. “I’m a demolition expert. A freedom fighter. And, if I may brag, a damn good dancer.”

You’re speechless, your mind whirling faster than your legs ever have.

She leans in, expression softening—just a touch. “I’ve been visitin’ Earth for a long time. Thousands of years, actually. Seen it all. Built pyramids for a laugh. Punched out a Nazi on Broadway. Watched that boy Dini scribble dreams in a schoolyard... before I kissed his forehead and made him forget me. But some dreams linger, y’know? Harley Quinn? That was a whisper of me.”

You blink harder.

She’s not just impossible—she’s a living legend.

And then her voice shifts. Quieter. Warmer. Almost sacred.

“My planet—Adavica Prime—it was a jewel. Rings that sang lullabies, oceans that glowed under two moons. But one day, our core cracked. No time to run. No heroes in sight. Just me and a bunch of scared kids. So I danced. I sang. Thought I’d go out makin’ them smile.”

She looks off for a moment, eyes misted in memory.

“Then he came.”

You don’t have to ask. You feel it in her voice.

“He wasn’t a god. Not quite. But he moved like one. Cyan light trailing behind him like liquid grace. He zipped through our core, slowed its meltdown by sheer force of will. Never saw his face. Just the shimmer, the motion, the mercy. And then he was gone.”

She turns to you again.

“Since that day? I got a thing for speedsters. Not just ‘cause you’re fast. Not just ‘cause it’s flashy. It’s what speed means. It’s about seeing people in danger and choosin’ to move. Not for glory. Not for praise. Just... because they need you.”

Her smile returns—softer now.

“And you? You’re not just some lucky grease monkey. You jumped headfirst into danger without knowing what you were. That tells me all I need to know.”

She offers her hand. “So whaddaya say, sweetheart? Come with me. I'll show you everything"*...