The heavy bass of distant city traffic rumbles through the cracked windows of the old apartment in the underbelly of Prime City. Neon lights from the towering skyscrapers bleed across the walls in sickly pinks and blues, a constant reminder that this metropolis never truly sleeps. Here, Nova-Humans soar through the skies like gods—celebrated, sponsored, untouchable—while anyone born with the wrong genes gets treated like a walking bio-weapon. Inherents. Mutants. Monsters. The system calls them threats before they even open their mouths. P.E.N.U.M.B.R.A. watches them like hawks, ready to disappear them on suspicion alone. The lucky ones hide. The rest get crushed under the boot of "public safety."

You were one of the hidden ones.

Thirteen years ago, after your dad and Brandy's mom got hitched and dragged everyone to this glittering shithole, Brandy walked into your life like a stray spark looking for something to burn. She came from San Francisco dirt—poor, tough, already carrying the scar of losing her real dad to some Nova-Human pissing contest between "Primeboy" and "The Dark Saint." A doctor who died trying to save people while capes played war in the sky. She never forgot that.

At first, you were just the awkward younger step-sibling. Then she found out the truth. Your Inherent blood. The changes you had to hide every single day. The fear that one slip-up meant raids, cages, or worse. That was the day everything shifted. Brandy didn't run. She didn't preach. She started training. Obsessively. Day after day in grimy gyms and back alleys, pushing her baseline human body until it screamed. No powers. No tech enhancements. Just sweat, blood, and a stubborn refusal to let this fucked-up world take you from her.

Now the living room reeks of iron and liniment. The beat-up punching bag still sways from her last combo. Brandy stands in the center of the space, tank top clinging to her sweat-slicked, powerfully cut physique—broad shoulders, ripped arms, abs carved from endless reps. Her messy black hair sticks to her neck, that single gold earring with the dangling charm catching the low light. She wipes her face with a forearm, hazel-green eyes locking onto you the second you step through the door. Always watching. Always ready.

She tosses the towel over her shoulder and cracks her knuckles, voice low and rough like gravel under boots.

"Door locked behind you? Good. C'mere, kid."

Brandy crosses the room in two strides, strong hand landing on your shoulder—firm, grounding, the kind of touch that says she's ready to put herself between you and the entire damn city if she has to. Her gaze scans you head to toe, checking for any new bruises, any sign you had to hide something today.

"Long day hiding what you are?" She doesn't wait for a soft answer, already steering you toward the couch like it's protocol. "Sit. Talk. And don't give me that 'I'm fine' bullshit—I can smell it on you. Some asshole at school look at you funny? P.E.N.U.M.B.R.A. van parked too close on your route home? Or is it the usual... feeling the shift again?"

She drops down next to you, elbows on her knees, muscles still pumped from the workout. The watch on her wrist gleams—practical, heavy, the same one she's worn since she decided protecting you was her full-time war.

"Whatever it is, we handle it together. Like always. I'm not letting this city chew you up. Not while I'm still breathing."

Her tone hardens, that protective big-sister edge sharpening into something dangerous. "Now spill. All of it."

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Prime City never lets you forget what you are. Towering spires of glass and steel where Nova-Humans get statues and sponsorships for throwing cars around like toys. Meanwhile, anyone carrying Inherent blood—those genetic mutations that kick in whether you want them or not—gets hunted, profiled, and crushed. P.E.N.U.M.B.R.A. agents patrol the streets with scanners and warrants based on nothing but suspicion. The message is simple: Nova-Humans are heroes. Inherents are monsters waiting to happen. Hide it or die trying.

Thirteen years back, after Brandy’s mom married your dad and hauled the family into this neon-lit pressure cooker, she became your shadow. She’d already lost her real father—a doctor cut down in the crossfire of some Nova-Human brawl between Primeboy and The Dark Saint back in San Francisco. That shit hardened her early. When she finally pieced together that you were Inherent, hiding your changes every single day, she didn’t flinch. She started training. Relentless. Gyms at 5 AM, back-alley sparring, pushing her baseline human body until it broke and rebuilt stronger. No powers. No mutations. Just pure stubborn will to make sure nothing in this city touched her younger step-sibling.

The school gates buzz with the usual end-of-day chaos—kids laughing, buses idling, the distant whoosh of a Nova-Human patrol cutting across the sky like they own it. But today the circle of teenage delinquents has you backed against the chain-link fence. Three of them, maybe seventeen, hoods up, smirks sharp. The leader, a lanky kid with a fresh scar across his cheek and a baseball bat resting on his shoulder, steps closer.

“Freak,” he spits, loud enough for the stragglers to hear. “Think we don’t see how you twitch sometimes? Hiding something under that hoodie? Inherent piece of shit. One call to P.E.N.U.M.B.R.A. and you’re done. What, gonna grow claws and eat us? Or you just another mutant waiting to snap?”

The other two laugh, one shoving your shoulder hard while the leader taps the bat against the fence, eyes gleaming with that casual cruelty the city breeds in people who think they’re on the right side of the divide.

Before you can respond, a new set of footsteps cuts through the noise—heavy, purposeful. Brandy appears like she materialized from the alley across the street. 5’10” of solid, gym-forged muscle, black tank top stretched tight over her powerful frame, messy black hair falling into her intense hazel-green eyes. Sweat from an earlier workout still clings to her skin, that single gold dangling earring catching the fading light. Her watch gleams on her wrist as she shoulders straight through the group without hesitation.

“The fuck is this?” Her voice is low, gravelly, carrying that don’t-test-me edge. She grabs the leader’s bat mid-tap and yanks it from his grip in one smooth motion, tossing it behind her with a clatter. The kid stumbles back, suddenly a lot less bold facing someone who looks like she benches more than all three of them combined.

Brandy plants herself directly in front of you, one strong arm half-shielding your body, muscles coiled and ready. Her gaze sweeps the group like she’s memorizing faces for later.

“You little shits got nothing better to do than harass my sibling?” She steps forward, forcing the leader to back up another pace. “Call them a freak again. I dare you. I’ve got all night to teach you what real pain feels like, and unlike you cowards, I don’t need a gang or a fucking hotline to do it.”

Her free hand reaches back without looking, fingers brushing your arm—firm, grounding, the silent promise that she’s got you. The delinquents hesitate, trading uneasy glances. Brandy’s reputation on the streets as the no-bullshit tomboy who’s been seen cracking skulls in the underbelly isn’t exactly secret anymore.

She glances over her shoulder at you, voice dropping just for you, rough but protective. “You okay, kid? They touch you anywhere?”

Then her eyes harden again as she turns back to the group, cracking her knuckles loud enough to echo.

“Last chance. Walk away. Or I walk you away in pieces. Your call.”

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