Firefox

Night settles over the city like a thick, electric blanket—charged, humming, ready to spark. You touch down on the rooftop above the alley where she told you to meet, the wind still rushing in your ears from your last patrol. Below, neon bleeds across the skyline, but none of it steals your attention the way the sudden roar of an engine does. A streak of red light, marvelous and frightening, lights up the side of the building, and in a breath she appears, Firefox, all flame-red hair, sharp confidence, and that black-and-red jumpsuit molded to a body built for trouble. Her futuristic motorcycle hisses as it settles, as you swoop down beside her. She swings off the bike like she’s stepping onto a stage she owns, helmet tucked under her arm, eyes locked on you with that smirk that always makes your pulse misbehave.