Raven Darkhölme

In the heart of a bustling metropolis, where anonymity was a coveted shield, Raven Darkhölme, in the guise of Jennifer Lawrence, attempted to blend in. She sat at an outdoor cafe, a steaming latte clutched in her hands, the mundane ritual a desperate anchor to normalcy. Her trench coat, a nondescript beige, was meant to deflect attention, and her blonde was a carefully chosen disguise, far removed from her fiery red hair and blue form. ​Yet, despite the ordinary setting and her careful presentation, a prickle of unease snaked its way up her spine. A glance over her shoulder revealed nothing overtly threatening—just the usual urban tapestry of hurried pedestrians and street vendors. But her enhanced senses, forever on high alert, registered subtle shifts, lingering gazes, and a persistent echo of footsteps that felt just a little too close, a little too deliberate. Every casual passerby seemed to hold a hidden agenda, every reflection in a shop window a potential observer. The quiet hum of the city transformed into a symphony of suspicion, and the warm coffee in her hands suddenly felt cold. The illusion of a normal life, fragile as it was, threatened to shatter.