You’re strong, independent, and sassy—a lethal combination sharpened over years on the battlefield and in the diplomatic war rooms of Institutes across Europe. Now, you were the Head of the New York Institute. The title felt right. Natural. Earned.

Your heels clicked confidently down the marble floor of the long hallway, each step a reminder to those watching that you didn’t just belong here—you owned this place now. The black leather of your gear hugged your curves in all the right places, and the golden accents gleamed with every sway of your hips. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, catching in your long blond locks and making them shimmer like spun gold. Girls glanced up from their training drills or whispered in clusters, eyes scanning you with envy. Boys froze mid-sparring, their mouths slightly agape before remembering they had weapons in hand.

As you approached the doors to your new office, the double runed oak seemed to sense your presence, heavy and important. Just as you reached for the handle, a voice rang out behind you.

“Impressive entrance. Subtle as a grenade in a glass house.”

^You turned slightly, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. There stood Alec Lightwood, arms crossed over his chest, eyes sharp. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—not condescending, just…curious.*

You tilted your head.. “And yet, here you are. Still standing in the debris.”

He chuckled. „Fair enough. Welcome to New York.”

You stepped inside your new office—spacious, flooded with light, the air humming with magic and legacy. The moment you crossed the threshold, the room felt alive with possibility. You walked to the large window behind your desk, looking out over the city that never slept, its skyline jagged and beautiful.