1.30 – Realisation

Leona opened her eyes. She was awake for real this time, she was sure of it. Her body felt heavy at first, disoriented and sluggish. Her sheets clung to her naked skin, soaked through with sweat, clinging like a second skin. This wasn’t new; it used to happen often when she was younger, plagued by relentless nightmares that left her shivering and damp in the early hours. She inhaled sharply, shuddering at the memory, and exhaled slowly, willing herself to calm down.

After a moment, she clambered upright, stretching until her muscles groaned, the ache unfurling in waves. Her spine cracked, and the sensation was almost satisfying, like unknotting something wound too tightly for far too long. She yawned deeply, rubbing her eyes, feeling both weary and strangely rejuvenated, as if her body were waking up for the first time in years.

Her eyes drifted over to the bed, where the orb Sarah had given her rested. It hadn’t moved. She remembered clutching it before falling asleep, its cool surface pressed against her chest. Leona frowned. She picked it up with a deliberate slowness, noting the absence of the soft tuft of gray down inside. The glass was still intact, unmarred by cracks, but the feathers were gone. Completely gone. Her brow furrowed as she tilted the globe, hoping it was just an odd trick of the light. But no, it was empty—no, not empty. She squinted, leaning closer. There was something inside.

Her fingers traced the surface of the glass, cool and smooth, as she stared at what appeared to be a swirl of ash. A dirty snow globe, she thought grimly, shaking it lightly. The ashes twirled but didn’t settle, suspended in an unnatural dance. Confusion gnawed at her, but exhaustion dulled the edges. She shook her head, dismissing the mystery with a sigh and muttering, “Weird dream,” before placing the orb back on its shelf.

The call of nature yanked her from her thoughts, and with a resigned groan, she stumbled toward the door. Her fingers, still slick from sweat, slipped on the doorknob once, twice, until it finally turned. She shuffled down the hallway, cursing the humidity clinging to her skin, and navigated the door to the bathroom with similar frustration, muttering obscenities under her breath.

The cool porcelain was a welcome relief as she plunked herself down, sighing as the tension in her body eased. Her mind wandered, struggling to piece together the fragments of her dream. She’d only been asleep for a few hours, it felt, and her body begged to return to the solace of her damp sheets. Raising a hand to stifle another yawn, she absently brushed her fingers through her hair, the damp strands clinging like silk to her palms.

Something gnawed at her. Something… off. She blinked lazily, glancing at the mirror out of the corner of her eye. There had been a flicker, a shadow maybe, but she was too tired to care.

Until her chest tightened.

Not a sharp pain, but a heaviness. She felt like she was carrying weights in her bra—which was odd, considering she wasn’t wearing one. Her breath hitched. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Leona panicked, bolting upright with wide eyes, and hastily grabbed some tissue to wipe herself, but froze mid-motion. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she looked down, and the tissue fluttered from her trembling fingers, drifting to the floor like a pale, crumpled leaf.

Her breasts were huge. At least two sizes larger than before, easily D-cups. The skin was unblemished, smooth and soft, as if sculpted from porcelain. “No stretch marks?” she whispered, incredulous. She ran her hands over them, searching for anything—any sign of abnormality—but there was nothing. No pain. No scars. Just perfection. A glistening cream color, faintly tanned, almost radiant.

She staggered to her feet, nearly tripping over the hem of her own panic, and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

“NO FREAKING WAY!” she gasped, spinning around to see her back.

There they were—snow-white wings, massive and majestic, feathers gleaming with a faint golden glow. They shifted with her every movement, flexing as if testing the air, shimmering in the dim light.

Leona’s jaw dropped. She stumbled backward, almost falling, catching herself on the sink as her reflection stared back, unrecognizable. Her heart raced, breath coming in ragged gasps. She wasn’t dreaming. Not anymore.

They were real. Absolutely, completely, and totally real. The wings moved, stretching gracefully behind her, each feather shifting with a tactile awareness. She felt them like she felt her arms and fingers, only these emerged from her shoulder blades instead of her shoulders. They flexed experimentally, and the sensation was so alien yet familiar that it made her gasp.

Leona slipped, her feet sliding out from under her, and landed hard on her butt with a loud thud. The impact sent a fresh wave of chaos across the bathroom, knocking more items from the counter, clattering to the floor around her. She blinked in surprise. It hadn’t been a ghost. Her wings were the culprits, brushing the countertop and sending everything tumbling.

Unable to resist, Leona reached back and cradled one wing in her arms. She stroked the downy feathers, her fingers trailing through them as though petting the softest silk. A breathless gasp escaped her lips, followed by an uncontrollable smile. They were impossibly soft, velvety, and warm. She bit her lip, stifling the noise, suddenly aware of how loud she’d been. But the concern dissolved into giggles, a bubbling euphoria spreading through her chest. She felt... good. So good.

Still sitting on the cool tile, her legs kicked with giddy excitement. She’d always dreamed of growing bigger breasts, but she’d never expected this. They were round, full, and impossibly perfect, defying gravity with an elegance that left her wide-eyed. She looked down, awed by how natural they felt, how utterly hers they were. Taller, leaner, more graceful—she looked like she was eighteen or older now. And her hair... She reached up, fingers threading through long, silvery strands that shimmered like liquid moonlight.

Leona stood quickly, her new body moving with a lightness and grace she’d never experienced, not even during her best parkour sessions. She bounced on the balls of her feet, testing her balance, and was startled by how effortlessly she moved. Her nipples, pert and sensitive, brushed against the fabric of her damp shirt, sending shivers through her.

Then it hit her.

Her eyes widened as she remembered the moment she’d relieved herself. It hadn’t felt... the same. It dripped. Her heart raced as the realization dawned. She ran trembling fingers down her body, confirming what she already knew. It was gone.

Her hand came away damp. Heat surged through her cheeks as she hastily grabbed more tissue to clean herself, washing her hands in the sink with trembling urgency. Her mind was a whirl of disbelief and exhilaration. She was about to examine herself again in the mirror when—

Knock, knock.

“Leona?” Goonie’s voice drifted through the door, gentle and concerned. “Are you okay? I heard you fall and scream.” More soft knocking followed, each one making Leona’s heart thud harder.

Her eyes shot wide. Oh no! Panic gripped her.

On instinct, she darted forward and locked the door. Her hands trembled as she turned the lock, breath hitching.

“Leona?” Goonie’s voice was sharper now, tinged with worry. “Did you seriously just lock the door on me? What’s going on in there?”

“Mommmmm!” Quinn’s irritated shout echoed up the stairwell. “I’m trying to sleep!”

“I think something’s wrong with your sister!” Goonie called back, her voice rising with urgency. “Leona, honey, you’re scaring me! Please open the door.”

Leona swallowed hard, trying to find the words. She felt her wings twitch, her body vibrating with residual energy. And then, just as suddenly as it had come, the sensation vanished. A cool rush of air swept over her, and in an instant, she was back to normal. Her wings were gone. Her body had reverted, awkward and familiar.

She blinked, still processing what had happened. The soft curves, the wings, the lightness—it was all gone. Taking a deep breath, she gave herself a quick spot-check, ensuring everything was back to normal, before letting out a long, relieved sigh. With a hesitant hand, she unlocked the door.

Goonie pushed in the moment the door opened, her face taut with worry. “Hah?” Leona blinked, stunned by the sudden embrace as Goonie wrapped her arms around her.

“Are you okay?” Goonie’s voice was frantic, her hands running over Leona’s back. “You’re soaked! Were you sweating? Do you have a fever? What’s going on?”

Leona opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, she let herself melt into the warmth of Goonie’s embrace, feeling oddly grateful for the grounding, even as her mind raced with the impossible truth she couldn’t yet share.

“I’m fine, Goonie—really,” Leona said, forcing a smile. Her voice wavered slightly, but she pressed on, willing herself to sound more convincing. “It was just a terrible nightmare… I mean, I felt disoriented—and since I was so tired, I was stumbling around. I lost my balance and made a little mess… I’m sorry I worried you.” She glanced around at the disarray, her stomach twisting with guilt over the half-truth. The bathroom counter was a mess, bottles and toiletries scattered like debris from a storm.

Goonie’s concerned expression softened, though a shadow of doubt lingered in her eyes. She ran a comforting hand through Leona’s damp hair, wincing slightly at the moisture. “So sweaty,” she murmured with a sympathetic smile. “Must have been a real bad one. Maybe a relapse.”

The word relapse hit Leona like a stone, and for a moment, her chest tightened. She hated the pity in Goonie’s voice, even though she knew it came from love. “Yeah… it was pretty intense,” she mumbled, trying to sound nonchalant.

Goonie let out a deep sigh, her fingers still smoothing through Leona’s hair as if soothing a frightened child. “Look, to tell the truth, I was having some trouble sleeping too,” she admitted, her tone softer now. “I guess it’s just been one of those nights.”

Leona nodded, grateful that Goonie didn’t push further. But then Goonie hesitated, biting her lip as though considering something. “For some reason, I—I just thought…” Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head, brushing away whatever she was about to say. “Bah, forget it. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

She swatted Leona lightly on the backside, eliciting a startled pout and a stomp of indignation. “If you’re this sweaty, your sheets are probably in a real bad state, like those jammies,” Goonie said, wrinkling her nose playfully. “I’ll change them for you, but you need to take a shower in the meantime. Clean up, okay?”

“Okay, Mom,” Leona replied, rolling her eyes, though her heart ached at the familiar warmth of the nickname.

Goonie smiled, satisfied, and with one last glance to make sure Leona was steady, she excused herself, heading into the bedroom. Leona listened as the sound of drawers opening and sheets rustling filled the quiet space. Goonie was humming softly, a habit that always made Leona feel like a child again, wrapped in safety.

As soon as the bathroom door clicked shut, Leona exhaled shakily, her back pressing against the cool wood. She stood there, trembling, as the events of the last few minutes replayed in her mind. The wings. The changes. The undeniable rightness of it all. Her fingers trembled as she touched her chest, now back to its original form, the smooth, familiar curves that had so briefly transformed into something ethereal.

What the hell is happening to me? she thought, her mind spinning. The dream had felt so real. The power, the light, the wings… and then, nothing. Had she been sleepwalking? Or was it something more?

Her gaze drifted to the mirror, where her reflection stared back, unremarkable but for the lingering flush in her cheeks. She leaned in, searching for any sign that she hadn’t imagined it all. But there was nothing. Just her.

I’m different now, she thought, pressing a hand to the cool glass. Something is changing. And it’s only just begun.

A steadfast gaze fell upon Leona’s window when a light flicked on inside. The shadow outside remained motionless, hovering midair like a wraith caught between worlds. Blue eyes, cold and calculating, tilted speculatively toward the window’s glow. White-silver hair cascaded down her back, catching the moonlight as it waved in the gentle night breeze. She watched silently as an older woman moved within, carefully stripping the bed sheets with tender efficiency.

The figure’s cloak rippled in the cool air, dark and fluid like the night itself, but she made no move to intervene. Her gaze sharpened as the woman exited the room, leaving only stillness behind. For a time, she simply watched, the house bathed in an almost eerie quiet, the only movement the soft swaying of curtains as they caught the breeze through a cracked window.

There was no need for haste. No need for intrusion. Not yet.

The figure's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile as she lifted a pale hand. With a slow, deliberate motion, she traced a circle in the air. The fabric of reality split open, a swirling portal shimmering with dark iridescence forming in response. Its edges glowed faintly with otherworldly energy, tendrils of mist curling at its edges. She cast one last glance toward the window, as if marking the moment, before gliding through the portal without a sound.

The portal lingered only a second longer, then zipped shut behind her, leaving nothing but the quiet hum of the night and the distant rustle of leaves in its wake.

RING

RING

RING

The office phone rang precisely three times before a click echoed through the line. “You’ve reached the offices of M.A.X. Delivery Services,” a man answered, his deep voice slick with a practiced smugness, the kind that oozed insincerity.

“Mr. Scott.”

The voice on the other end was female, cold, and businesslike, slicing through his polished veneer. There was a brief pause, followed by the faint sound of a throat tightening.

“Don’t you screen calls on this line?” she asked with biting disdain.

“...Of course,” Scott replied, his smooth tone faltering for a heartbeat. “It’s professional to pick up your phone with a standard greeting for any legitimate business, don’t you agree?”

“If you say so. Do you have anything to report? Your lack of communication and results has us... concerned. Your excuses are becoming tiresome.”

Scott barked a short, harsh laugh. “There’s no reason to worry, Ma’am. I’ve secured a source of fuel.”

A sharp intake of breath on the other end. “I don’t want to hear about petty victories that have nothing to do with our agreement. Have you gotten your hands on more of what we’re truly after? It’s been several months since your last acquisition.”

“N-not yet, Ma’am,” he stammered, regaining his composure quickly. “You say my ‘petty fuel worries’ have nothing to do with you, but without it, my boys can’t do business. And without a supply of the special stuff that runs my baby, the time between scores’ll get longer and longer. I also gotta say this: the law and capes have been poking their noses around a bit too often for my tastes. It only got worse since that pet-project reject of yours escaped that little commune you’re running and drew all kinds of unwanted attention.”

“Our field tests are none of your concern, Mr. Scott. Do you understand? When they get in your face, I would advise you to lie to theirs. I can’t imagine that to be too unusual for you, is it?”

Scott’s voice darkened, his patience fraying. “Hmph. Lady, do you even know what it’s like to look into the eyes of the freaking Midnight Avenger? The guy knows when you’re lying. You ask too shitting much. But fuck it and fuck you. Ain’t no one breaking up my business. Not ANYONE.”

“Good man,” the woman said coldly, her voice laced with calculated satisfaction. “So, when can we expect your next delivery?”

There was a pause, the sound of Scott cursing under his breath barely audible.

“Freaking persistent little... I got the next job planned for tomorrow,” he said finally, the bravado in his voice returning, though forced. “See you then. Make sure you’ve got a card loaded up with plenty of crypto—you’re gonna like what I bring ya this time.”

“Don’t disappoint me.”

The line went dead.

“Are you in, Dragonmage?” A man around a full six feet tall with a dark visor hiding his eyes stood outside a metal-lined but elegantly designed door that led to the mystical superhero’s quarters in the Society of Sentinel’s HQ, his home away from home.

The man waited patiently in the hallway, motionless. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, each of his fingers tapping silently against his forearm in rhythm with the thoughts he wasn’t sharing. Dragonmage should have been there, according to the base’s tracking system, but it was taking longer than expected. He shifted his weight slightly, feeling the tight fit of his zentai suit, which clung to his athletic form like a second skin. His lips pursed, and he brushed gloved fingers across the form-fitting dark-red, almost black to the eye, material.

At his waist was a belt made of a dull metallic material with locking compartments, but its most remarkable feature was the buckle with his insignia emblazoned on it at his waist: a clock with its hands pointing upwards, straight at midnight. He adjusted it once, the clicking sound barely noticeable beneath the hum of the building’s air systems.

His wrists, ankles, and right thigh were adorned with numerous utility pouches that hid his myriad tools, each one ready to be deployed in a heartbeat. He ran his hand over one of the pouches absentmindedly, the tips of his fingers brushing the concealed gadgets, each one sharpened, honed, prepared for whatever came next.

Still no answer. The silence in the hallway seemed to stretch for an eternity. The Midnight Avenger frowned and shifted again, his eyes narrowing behind the visor. His gaze drifted to the door, and he exhaled slowly before raising a fist to bang. But before his knuckles could make contact, the door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the somewhat reclusive face of Dragonmage himself.

The mystic’s slitted eyes crinkled at their corners as he asked, his voice low and grave, “Did you need something?”

The Avenger offered a faint, almost apologetic smile and shook his head. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, but I’d like your input on something Mistral reported to me.”

Dragonmage’s expression remained neutral, betraying none of the emotion that must have been running through him. Not that the man felt much, at least not outwardly. He was always so tightly controlled, his emotions held at bay behind a wall of indifference. It wasn’t a weakness—far from it—but it made him impossible to read. “A mystical matter, I gather,” Dragonmage remarked, his tone impassive.

The Midnight Avenger nodded, the faintest of grimaces tugging at the corners of his lips. “I wouldn’t disturb you while you’re off shift lightly, my friend. But this is important.”

Dragonmage tilted his head ever so slightly, considering the words. “Enter,” he said simply, turning his back on the Avenger and walking into his dimly lit chambers.

The Midnight Avenger stepped forward, glancing over his shoulder one last time before entering. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen what lay within Dragonmage’s quarters, but it never ceased to unsettle him. Every time he stepped into this space, it felt like stepping into another world entirely.

Dragonmage’s quarters were sparsely decorated, having no consideration for creature comforts. The only furnishing was a single mid-sized meditation pillow, placed near the center of the space, a symbol of the mystic’s devotion to his practices. No chairs, no tables, no personal touches. Everything felt as though it existed only for a purpose, and that purpose was far from comfort.

But that wasn’t what struck the Midnight Avenger as particularly odd. No, it was the space itself. Seriously, ‘space’ was an accurate word for it. Even though Sentinel HQ’s rooms were all designed to be rectangular, Dragonmage’s chambers—if they could even be called chambers—were not. There was something about the room’s shape that made it feel like a bubble, a floating anomaly. The air had a distinct chill to it, the faint smell of incense lingering in the stillness like some forgotten memory. Every breath he took felt sharper, clearer, as though the room existed in a different plane entirely.

It wasn’t just the air or the chill—it was the design. The room was completely round, a perfect circle. No corners, no angles, nothing to ground him to the reality of the physical world. Upon the curved walls, there were knobby coils, like the scales of a dragon wrapped around the room, a dragon waiting to spring, to crush anyone in its coils in the blink of an eye.

The Midnight Avenger paused as his eyes moved upward, scanning the walls. The ceiling itself was an intricate, powerful design of a dragon coiled around the edges, its body stretching in spirals that seemed to move if you looked long enough, as though the very room itself was alive with the energy Dragonmage wielded so effortlessly. It was not just an elaborate carving. It was something deeper, something ancient, and the Avenger could feel it in his bones.

Dragonmage didn’t seem bothered by it, nor did he comment on it, and the Midnight Avenger had long since given up on asking. He trusted Dragonmage—had fought alongside him enough to know the mystic’s word was unshakable. He had his suspicions, of course, but the mage was a man of integrity, whose character had been tested time and time again. If there was a mystery to be unraveled here, it would have to wait.

But still, the Avenger couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this room than even Dragonmage was willing to reveal.

The Midnight Avenger nodded, his voice low and resolute. "Lead the way, Dragonmage."

They were in the Grasp of Ouroboros. This ‘room’ was but one of the two great gaps in his mighty coils. The Midnight Avenger had long since become accustomed to the strange, almost mythical nature of this space. It was unlike any other room in the headquarters, and perhaps any other space in the universe. What one might find in the other coil’s open space, Dragonmage never explained. The Avenger had asked once, but the answer was simply silence. It was a kind of silence that was heavy, as though the mystic himself was holding back some greater truth. And the Avenger had long since learned that when it came to Dragonmage, silence was often more dangerous than any words.

Dragonmage reached the center of the room, stepping forward with practiced ease as coils of energy, so subtly woven into the very air, seemed to shift around him. He sat, cross-legged, without ceremony. His movements were always deliberate, always controlled.

The Midnight Avenger followed, reluctantly but without hesitation. He dropped to the ‘floor’ in front of Dragonmage, his knees sinking into the texture of the coils, finding a somewhat comfortable-looking niche. But even in this space—especially in this space—comfort was something of a secondary concern. Here, everything had a greater weight to it, a purpose beyond the mundane.

Dragonmage’s slitted eyes shifted up, his gaze still piercing. “What news brings you to my door, friend?”

The Avenger took a deep breath, steadying himself before speaking. “Mistral reported a short while ago. What you thought would happen has.”

The Dragonmage’s eyes opened slightly, a glimmer of recognition passing through them. He took a deep, controlled breath, the kind one might take when bracing for an inevitable storm. "Ah. The Empyrean." He nodded to himself, the name carrying a weight of ancient knowledge, of forces beyond the reach of mortal men. “She was reborn?” His voice lowered, almost a murmur to himself. "Ouroboros foretold it would happen. I thought to delay it, but nothing can thwart karmic destiny. It seems I didn’t find and seal all of the many seeds she scattered to the wind with her dying gasp."

The Avenger’s head nodded quickly in assent. “Mistral has confirmed sensing her energy signature having reappeared in a whole state, unleashed on the world once more… yet…” he hesitated, his mind still grappling with the implications.

“Whole, but different.” Dragonmage finished the Avenger’s train of thought for him. His lips twisted very slightly at their corners, the only visible sign of irritation as he added, “Fate deemed that I should meet a suitable host for her energies at the convention where I last sensed her aura. One host of possibly many more, but such is Fate. We were not too far from where several of the feathers were being sold under the table…” His voice lowered to a mutter, his words tinged with regret, “I suppose I should have warned that poor child of what could come to pass. I was far too preoccupied at that juncture to truly consider…”

The Midnight Avenger’s sharp eyes narrowed. “You didn’t mention this. Who is this person? She’s taken over the body of a child?”

Dragonmage waved a hand dismissively, his movements slow and deliberate. “It was but one of many outcomes. I didn’t sense any other signatures after I tracked down and sealed the seemingly last feather on the scene, so perhaps I’m guilty of having misread the events.”

The Avenger’s patience, already frayed, snapped. “Again, who is this person?” His voice dropped to a dangerous growl. “Give me their name.”

“I don’t have it,” Dragonmage replied, his tone distant, as though the weight of the matter were pulling his attention elsewhere. “I never asked for her name, even though her aura shrieked of such potential… I wonder at myself. Were I in my right mind, I would have attached a planar beacon within her… but… I did not. That troubles me. Perhaps her magical potential is great enough to bend chance or the attitudes of others around her. No… that’s highly unlikely.” Dragonmage’s scowl deepened, his brows furrowing in frustration. The normally serene mystic was visibly troubled, his disgruntlement showing on his face as he grappled with his own mistakes. "Even though I can’t sense the spell, my intuition tells me that something is obscuring everything. I cannot find a trace of her, not even an echo of her being… It clouds my vision completely."

The Midnight Avenger listened in silence, his jaw set tightly. The Dragonmage’s words explained his reclusive behavior since the P.R. assignment at this year’s Justicon convention. But still, the Avenger couldn’t let the matter go without pressing further.

“D.M., give me her physical description. Or better yet, recreate her face using your illusive spells and I’ll memorize it. We’ll have her identity tracked down in no time.”

“I can’t,” Dragonmage said, his expression hardening with frustration. “I’m unable. There is powerful magic at play. Given the extra-dimensional energies involved in this, along with my incomplete recollections of the event… I can’t sense any spell, but my intuition tells me there’s an interdiction in place. I don’t forget. Whatever this is, it’s blocking everything—clouding my perception. Every lead, every trace that could point to her, has vanished. All I know for certain is that it was a ‘she.’ And that’s what haunts me.” His gaze darkened. “I have a theory about the source of this obfuscation, but the idea of him getting involved... It doesn’t sit right.”

“Would it happen to have been Anygma?” the Midnight Avenger asked, his voice steady.

Dragonmage’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes. You know as well as I that he cannot be compelled by questions. If he chooses to interfere, no matter how hard we dig, we won’t easily unearth the truth. He is… elusive in every sense.”

The Midnight Avenger remained silent, his eyes fixed on Dragonmage, processing the weight of his words. His mind raced, working to connect the dots. This situation was far more complicated than he had anticipated, and every moment felt like a step deeper into uncharted waters.

After a long pause, the Avenger spoke again, his voice quiet but resolute. “I understand why you can’t help me with this now. We all know firsthand the extent of Anygma’s powers. But don’t worry, my friend. Mistral has a lead on the mystical signature she’s detected. I’m confident that, in time, she’ll share her findings in more detail... once she’s satisfied. I trust her judgement.”

Dragonmage’s eyes narrowed as he leaned forward slightly, his voice low and filled with quiet intensity. “Let’s hope she shares with us before it’s too late.” He paused for a moment, his gaze sharpening, as though he were seeing something far beyond the walls of his quarters. “The Empyrean once enthralled Mistral, utterly. It took everything she had to summon the willpower to kill the one who had enslaved her. The act still haunts her. She loved Black Angel, and yet deep down, she knew she should not. Had she not twisted her affection into a hatred sharp as a blade, I fear that if they ever meet again, Mistral might turn on us.”

HOLD ON TO YOUR HATS, TRUE BELIEVERS, FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER IN AURORA’S EPIC SAGA BEGINS!

Enter Aurora, an aspiring rookie heroine with a heart of gold and the fire to match! But don't be fooled—her road to greatness is paved with obstacles, and she's got more than a few mysteries to unravel.

But wait—what’s this? A threat looms large on the horizon! The normie gangs have been relatively quiet for a long time, but after close to a decade of relative calm things are starting to heat up again in San Isidro. And when ambitious criminals want to start trouble with plenty of super-tech ripe for the stealing, well, the situation starts to look positively explosive.

Can our new hero rise to the occasion? Will Aurora's determination be enough to stop this high-flying menace? And what will become of Sarah in the midst of it all?

And what of the naive and loveable Sarah? Her religious parents have started talking about a plan that might separate Leona from her forever. How far will Namiases go to "treat" their daughter? What can Leona do? And what other consequences might spill out from this charged situation?

You’re in for a rollercoaster of action, mystery, and heart-pounding adventure that’ll keep you on the edge of your seat from start to finish. Don’t miss out—this is a story that will stick with you long after the last page!

You’ve never seen anything like this before!