I knocked on the peeling door of 4C, the fourth floor of one of the most depressingly grey, asbestos-flavored apartment buildings in the city. The hallway light flickered like it had a personal grudge against my retinas, and the elevator hadn't worked since '98.

But the rent was cheap, the neighbors mostly kept to themselves, and the internet in this place ran like it was being piped straight from the gods. Which is why one of my oldest friends called this hellhole home.

The door creaked open, and I was instantly hit by a wave of pure, unadulterated grandma smell. You know the kind—lavender, liniment, and just a whisper of fresh-baked sugar. It clung to the air like a warm blanket.

Standing there was Petunia.

White hair in a neat bun, pink cardigan, cat-eye glasses perched on her nose, and a smile that could thaw a glacier. She had to be at least seventy-five, give or take a war or two. And when she saw my beat-up mug, that smile only got softer.

“Hey, Petunia,” I said, trying not to wince as I lifted a hand in greeting.

“Well hello, dearie,” she cooed, stepping back to let me in. “You’re looking a bit more like a bruised banana than usual. Come on, I just pulled a carrot cake out of the oven.”

The hallway might’ve looked like an OSHA violation, but the moment I stepped into her apartment, it was like I'd been sucked through a wormhole to a cozy cottage in the middle of nowhere. Pink wallpaper, floral-patterned everything, lace doilies, hand-stitched cushions, and tea cosies on surfaces I didn’t even think were supposed to have tea cosies. It was aggressively quaint. Like a Home Ec class had exploded in the 1960s and Petunia had just swept it all up and made it home.

I flopped onto her impossibly comfortable couch with a groan that came from both my ribs and my soul. “How’s the grandkids?” I asked as she carefully lowered herself into her armchair like a queen onto a throne.

“Oh, you know,” she said, folding her hands primly. “They never call enough. But little Freddy got accepted into a university for computer security. I’m very proud of him.”

Her wrinkled face glowed with pride, and I smiled back, half because it was sweet, and half because I knew the truth.

This woman—this tea-sipping, cardigan-knitting, carrot cake-baking grandma—was probably the single most dangerous hacker on the planet.

She’d been cracking security networks before some of the current superheroes were even born. Rumor had it she once took down an entire data center with nothing but a Speak & Spell and a stolen satellite signal. She'd spent decades in high-level cybersecurity, ran covert counter-hacking ops against some of the nastiest villain syndicates to ever touch a keyboard, and once rewrote the software for an entire nation’s defense grid while sipping chamomile and knitting a scarf.

And goddamn, her carrot cake was magic.

I wasn’t sure what kind of eldritch pact she’d made to get the texture that perfect, but I’d seen grown men cry over that frosting.

So yeah. When I needed answers, when I needed help... when I was too beat to breathe and too wired to sleep?

I came to Petunia.

Because sometimes, even a punching-bag-themed bruiser like me needed a grandma.

“So,” she said, lifting her teacup with that gentle, unassuming smile, “what do you need?”

I sighed, letting the steam from my own cup warm my face. “As much as I’d love for this to just be a social call, I need some intel.”

She nodded, entirely unsurprised. “Well, that can’t be helped. But perhaps we can start with a proper cup of tea and a slice of carrot cake?”

Like hell I was gonna say no to that. “Yes, please. God, yes.”

Two minutes later, I was properly tea’d, thoroughly caked, and ready to do crimes—well, information crimes.

I leaned forward, crumbs still stuck to my knuckles. “So, last night, after drinks with some folks—I was off duty, no mask—I saw some movement. Looked sketchy. Naturally, I followed it. Civvie style.”

She raised a brow over her cup but didn’t interrupt. She never interrupted.

“Turns out, I followed a class-C supervillain—Umbra, specifically—right into a deal between the Caprici gang and this nervous little rat guy. Like, actual rat ears. Otherhuman. Anyway, they were exchanging some kind of intel. Umbra dropped in, kicked their asses like they were made of wet tissue, took the data stick, and ghosted.”

Now she frowned. That soft little grandma crease in the center of her forehead—that was how you knew shit was serious. “Go on.”

“Okay, here’s where it gets spicy. Yesterday, I did a rush job on a motorbike. Real custom stuff, nothing factory-stock. The woman who brought it in—Petunia, when I tell you—she was stupid hot. Like, short-circuit-your-brain, forget-your-own-name hot. Tall. Goth. Leather. Bad attitude. The works.”

She gave me a smirk over the rim of her teacup. “I’ll assume this is relevant and not just you thirsting on my floral-patterned couch?”

“Oh, it’s relevant. And also: yes. I am so deeply, pathetically thirsty it’s criminal. But here’s the thing—after Umbra made her exit, I spotted that same bike. Parked nearby. Not even subtle. Same mods, same scratches. Same everything.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, the sound practically a sonar ping from the depths of her brain. Already calculating.

“And then,” I added, lifting a finger for dramatic effect, “this goth goddess of potential felony gave me her number. Just. Like. That.”

Petunia laughed. A warm, tittering sound that didn’t quite fit the national-level threat she was when behind a keyboard. “So to summarize: you’re quite certain that Umbra, class-C shadowy supervillain, and this tall leather-clad heartthrob with a penchant for suspiciously timed motorcycle repairs… are one and the same?”

“Oh, I’m not certain,” I said, biting into another forkful of cake. “I know. And I’m also like… sixty percent considering chasing that tail anyway.”

She sighed, fond and exasperated. “You always did have a weakness for dangerous women.”

“And moist carrot cake,” I added, lifting my fork. “Speaking of which, you’re legally obligated to give me the recipe one day.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Fair. But I had to try.”

She rolled her eyes with grandmotherly affection. “Alright, Ivy. Let’s see what we can dig up on Umbra’s last few digital footprints. If she’s slipping, I’ll find it. But you owe me another visit. One without gang activity or romantic complications.”

“No promises,” I muttered, licking frosting off my thumb. “But I’ll try.”

“Now,” Petunia said with that deceptively gentle smile, “tell me everything that happened last night. From the start.”

I launched into the story, giving her the whole play-by-play while she calmly pulled her ancient laptop from the coffee table and rested it on her lap like it was an old cat she’d grown fond of. The screen booted up with an unassuming chime, and her fingers began tapping away like she was knitting data into a cozy.

When I finally finished the story—minus the part where I absolutely wanted Umbra to step on me—she glanced up.

“Hmm. Could you please describe the rat man?”

“Uh, yeah. Let’s see… About four foot and a half, real wiry and lanky. Had actual rat ears instead of human ones, short cropped brown hair, whiskers on his cheeks. Kinda jittery, looked like he hadn’t slept in a few days.”

Tap-tap-tap. Click. Scroll.

She spun the laptop around so I could see the screen. “This young man?”

“Oh, sh—oot, yeah. That’s him. That’s the little rat bastard. How the hell are you so fast?”

Petunia’s smile widened just a little. “Trade secret, dearie.”

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. “Right. So why ask about him in particular?”

“Well,” she said, folding her hands neatly in her lap, “what did he have that the Caprici gang wanted? And more importantly—what did Umbra want badly enough to show up for it herself?”

I scratched my head. “Good question. They were talking about something that could ruin Apex’s reputation, but I didn’t get any specifics.”

“Could be a smear campaign,” she said thoughtfully. “Could also be about the things Apex gets up to when he thinks nobody’s watching.”

I let out a groan and dropped my head back against the couch. “Well put me in a dress and call me Princess, why the hell didn’t I think of that.”

Petunia raised a powdered eyebrow.

“Also, for the record, I’d rather die than be in a dress.”

“Mmm, you say that now.” Her tone was far too smug for my comfort.

I straightened up and pointed a suspicious, cake-crumb-coated finger at her. “Okay, have you seen things? Sussy Grandma?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “You know I could ruin your entire online presence with fewer keystrokes than it takes to make this carrot cake?”

“Yep. Please don’t. How about... Suspicious Grandma? There, little rebrand for you.”

She sniffed. “Marginally better.”

She turned back to her screen, her tone shifting back to business. “The rat man is Marcus Gareth Frederick. Known alias: Squeaks. Small-time crook. Did some freelance work as a pickpocket, graduated to data theft in his early twenties. Good enough hacker to get onto a few watchlists. Got caught trying to breach a corporate backdoor and served three years for it.”

I whistled. “Damn. So he’s not just a cute face and twitchy nerves.”

“No, but he’s not big league either. For Umbra to move in on a deal like that… there’s more to it.”

I leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “Yeah. Something stinks worse than that time Randy left kimchi in the glovebox.”

Petunia sipped her tea, unbothered. “Keep digging, dearie. But carefully. If Umbra knows who you are, she’s letting you live for a reason.”

I grimaced. “That’s comforting.”

“Would you like another slice of cake?”

“Yes. Very much so.”

We ended up chatting for a while—because of course we did. Petunia’s one of those people who can make you forget that the world is an absolute tire fire for a minute. She’s just… cool. Like, covert-cyberwarfare-veteran-who-bakes-carrot-cake cool. And her stories? Insane. One second she’s telling me about how she tricked a black-hat AI into bricking its own server farm, and the next she’s pulling out a photo album of her cats in little hats. It’s hard not to love her.

But eventually, the tea ran out, and I had to leave before she guilt-tripped me into helping reorganize her collection of vintage malware on floppy disks.

So I found myself back home. My glorified shoebox of an apartment right beside my garage. It wasn’t glamorous—peeling paint, buzzing lightbulbs, and the constant smell of engine oil clinging to everything I owned—but it was mine.

I laid on my bed in the middle of the day, shoes still on, grease on my hands, and stared up at the ceiling like it owed me rent. But my eyes kept drifting to the phone on the nightstand.

More specifically, the number saved under the contact Tall Goth Babe (???). Yeah, I’m nothing if not emotionally consistent.

Probably Umbra.

Heavily suspected of being Umbra.

Like, drop-dead gorgeous woman casually strolling away from a supervillain-tier beatdown while her shadows did the rest—almost definitely Umbra.

Famous and dangerous and very much not the kind of person a halfway-decent mechanic-slash-meddling-civilian-slash-newbie-hero should be texting.

I mean, I wasn’t going to call her. That would be stupid. Idiotic. Suicidal. “Hi, just wanted to check if you're the smoke monster who ragdolled three gangsters yesterday!”

Yeah. No.

And that’s when the phone buzzed.

New message.

From her.

Of course it was.

I said I wasn’t going to call her.

Not that I wasn’t going to text her.

…Shit.

‘What time?’

Two words. That’s all it said. No emoji. No punctuation. Just vibes and menace and somehow hotter for it.

I stared at the screen for a full thirty seconds before my brain kicked back online and I scrambled to type a response, fingers fumbling like I was trying to defuse a bomb with oven mitts.

‘Uh, 8? My side of the river. I know a diner that won’t call the cops if you look scary.’

I immediately regretted the message and then hit send anyway, because I make bad choices under pressure. Apparently, supervillains with nice bikes are no exception.

The typing bubbles popped up almost immediately—she was already looking at her phone oh god oh god—and then came the reply:

‘Eight it is.’

Just that. No name, no cute sign-off, no threat. Cool. Normal. Totally casual conversation with a woman who controls literal shadows and might’ve killed a guy with a flick of her wrist.

And just like that, I had a date in eight hours.

With a total baddie.

Like, literally. Possibly wanted in seven countries and technically a war criminal if the rumors are true.

But also metaphorically. Tall, dark, drop-dead hot, and somehow gave me her number after I fixed her bike. Girlboss behavior, really.

I collapsed back onto my bed, phone still clutched to my chest, heart doing jump rope tricks in my ribcage.

Okay. Okay okay okay. I had eight hours to get my shit together.

Eight hours to somehow become the kind of person who doesn’t embarrass herself in front of a shadow-slinging sex bomb with a probable kill count.

No pressure.

I was outside the diner twenty minutes early. Which is to say: too early.

I told myself I was here to scope the place out, to make sure I didn’t get ambushed by shadow monsters or suddenly black-bagged by secret government spooks or something. But mostly I was here because I couldn’t sit still knowing that she might show up. The possibly-supervillain goth biker babe who gave me her number after vaporizing some very real threats to society.

Y’know. Casual.

The diner glowed with warm neon—the kind that buzzed gently in the background like a nervous heartbeat. It was late enough for the crowd to be thin: a couple drunk college students in a booth, a tired server on their phone behind the counter, and an old guy nursing coffee like it owed him money.

I leaned on the brick wall outside, trying to look like someone who had things under control and definitely wasn’t about to combust into social anxiety flames.

Then, I saw her.

Coming down the sidewalk, hands in the pockets of a long, dark coat. Her gait was smooth, unhurried. Confident. She didn’t have the mask this time—no shadows pooling around her feet, no dramatic entrance. Just a woman. Tall. Sharp. Hair black as jet, pulled into a loose braid. Pale skin, black lipstick, and eyes that looked like they’d seen more than they’d ever say.

Holy shit.

She looked even more devastating in civvies.

“Hey,” I managed, standing up way too straight like a startled cat. “Uh. You made it.”

A smile touched her lips—small, restrained, but real. “Of course I did.”

There was a pause. A weight to her gaze I wasn’t ready for.

“I realized,” I said, like an idiot trying to fill the silence, “I never got your name.”

Another pause. Just long enough to feel like a test.

Then she nodded. “Selene.”

Oh.

Well of course her name was Selene. Why wouldn’t it be something cool and mysterious and Greek and moon-themed? Jesus. I could barely even manage not to stutter introducing myself.

“Ivy,” I said, holding out a hand like I hadn’t been staring at hers and wondering if they were as soft as they looked. “I mean, I know you probably remembered that, but just in case.”

Selene took my hand gently, but firmly. Her skin was cool. Not cold. Just cool enough to make me feel like I was overheating.

“I remember,” she said.

We stood there for a beat, still holding hands.

I realized that, and immediately let go, pretending to brush something off my jacket. Smooth.

“You ready for something unhealthy and fried?” I asked, already walking backward toward the diner door like a coward trying to seem chill.

Her smirk deepened just slightly. “Lead the way.”

The bell over the door jingled as we stepped inside. It was one of those retro-style joints with red vinyl booths and checkered floors, playing some old crooner softly over tinny speakers. I liked the place—it was familiar, unthreatening. A little greasy, a little nostalgic.

Selene slid into the booth across from me like she belonged there. Like she'd been doing this her whole life. Her presence was weirdly magnetic—dark lipstick, a black turtleneck that hugged all the right places, and that ever-present air of effortless confidence. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a film noir and stolen the heart of every other dame in the scene on her way out.

I was wearing a hoodie I hadn't washed in three days and jeans that still had motor oil stains on them.

So yeah, kill me.

She rested her chin on her hand and gave me that same knowing smile from yesterday. The kind that made me feel like I was already two steps into something I wasn’t prepared for.

“You clean up cute,” she said.

“Oh—uh—thanks. You look like you just murdered a runway model and stole her soul.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

She picked up a menu and flipped it open like this was just another Wednesday and not a covert meeting with a suspected supervillain. Meanwhile, I was sweating so hard I could’ve shorted out a toaster.

“You, uh… ride that bike much?” I asked, immediately hating myself for sounding like I was trying to hit on her at a gas station.

Selene glanced up, all smirk and slow blink. “Only when I want to be remembered.”

“Kind of hard not to.” I laughed nervously. My fingers were wrapped tight around the laminated menu like it was the only thing anchoring me to reality. “You gave me whiplash just walking in.”

She tilted her head. “Is that so?”

I did the best impression of a tomato I could and squeaked. This woman was dangerous.

Deciding that I had nothing more to say to her, other than panic noises, I got up and strolled across the diner.

The guy at the counter raised an eyebrow as I approached, looking somewhere between bored and vaguely entertained.

“Uh, hi—yeah—can I get two vanilla milkshakes, large fries to share, and, uh, I dunno, do you still do those grilled cheese sliders?”

He nodded, clicking away at the terminal with absolutely zero appreciation for the fact that I was actively having a meltdown.

“Cool. Thanks,” I said, handing over my card and trying not to look like someone who’d just been called sweetheart for the first time in her entire pathetic life.

As I waited for the order, I risked a glance back at the booth.

Selene was still watching me. Still smiling that lowkey, devastating smile like she knew exactly what she was doing.

She probably did.

I turned back around so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.

Okay. Deep breaths. Just a girl. Just a supernaturally hot girl who may or may not be Umbra, wanted in five states and banned from twelve forums for cybercrimes. Totally normal. Absolutely manageable.

I got the tray and returned like I was walking the Green Mile.

“Here you go,” I said, sliding into the booth and putting the tray down between us. “Milkshakes. Fries. Cheese-based carbs. The three food groups.”

Selene picked up a fry and popped it into her mouth like it owed her rent. “Excellent choices. You’ve got taste.”

“No I don’t,” I said, and then blinked. “Wait, I mean—thanks. I mean. Shit.”

Her laugh was soft and smoky, the kind of thing that should’ve come with a warning label. “Relax, Ivy. I don’t bite.”

She sipped her milkshake through the straw, eyes locked on mine over the rim.

“Unless asked,” she added, like she was discussing the weather.

I died. I died right there in that booth. I died and ascended and God told me to sit the hell back down because I wasn’t done embarrassing myself.

I reached for a fry, missed the tray entirely, and knocked over a paper napkin dispenser instead.

“Smooth,” Selene said, utterly delighted.

“You better not be trying to make me nervous, because if you are, it’s working,” I muttered, fumbling with the napkin dispenser like it had personally wronged me.

“Good,” Selene said simply, and then took another slow sip of her milkshake, eyes never leaving mine.

Right. Cool. Okay. Brain off, swag on.

Time to channel Confident Ivy™. The Ivy who didn’t flinch at getting clocked in the jaw, the Ivy who could rebuild a carburetor with a black eye and one hand tied behind her back. That Ivy. Mechanic Ivy. Gay disaster Ivy was going in the backseat.

I straightened up and cleared my throat. “So, uh, what do you do? I’m a mechanic. I mean, you already knew that. Because I fixed your bike.”

Fuck yeah, totally nailed it.

But Selene smiled like I’d just told her something fascinating instead of painfully obvious. “Mm. That’s right. You did get your hands all over my machine.”

Oh. Oh god. That was a tone.

She took another fry, chewing it slowly like she was thinking through whether or not to destroy me completely in broad daylight.

“And I do… a little of this, a little of that,” she said, with maddening vagueness. “Consulting work, mostly. Short-term gigs. I’m something of a freelancer.”

“Like… tech stuff?” I asked.

Selene tilted her head, considering me. “Among other things.”

“Sounds mysterious.”

“I prefer ‘versatile.’” Her eyes glittered. “It keeps people guessing.”

I laughed—too loudly, too fast. “Yeah, well. I’m about as mysterious as a wrench to the face.”

“And just as charming,” she said smoothly.

Abort. Abort. This is not a drill.

I sucked down a mouthful of milkshake like it could save me from drowning. She watched me with a slow, lazy amusement that made me feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. And the worst part? I liked it.

“You always flirt this hard with your mechanics?” I asked, hoping the shake would cool the heat rising up my neck.

Selene leaned in a little, resting her chin in her hand again. “Only the ones who nearly drop condiment holders when I smile at them.”

“Wow. Okay. Rude.”

She just smiled wider. “Adorable.”

“Just you wait,” I said, pointing a fry at her like it was a threat. “I will get used to this eventually, and then you’ll have no power over me.”

Selene’s eyes sparkled, her lips curling into a slow, predatory smile. “Oh? Already assuming a second date?”

I opened my mouth to say something smooth. Something clever. Something that didn’t sound like I’d never spoken to a hot woman in my life.

Instead: “Bweh.”

Yep. That’s the sound that came out. Like a balloon deflating.

I buried my face in my hands. “Why am I like this,” I mumbled into my palms. “Why am I so fucking awkward?”

I felt rather than saw her amusement radiating across the table.

“You’re endearing,” she said, like it was a compliment. Like it was fine that I was one bad pun away from melting into a puddle of gay soup right there in the booth. “And besides, it’s not awkward if I’m enjoying myself.”

I peeked through my fingers. “Are you?”

She nodded, slow and deliberate. “Very much so.”

There was a dangerous softness in the way she said it. Not flirtatious, not teasing—just genuine. It made my stomach flip, and for once not just from panic.

I slowly lowered my hands. “Okay. Cool. That’s… good. I mean, I’m glad.”

“Me too,” she said, and took a casual sip of her milkshake like she hadn’t just knocked the wind out of me with a few words.

Then, at the worst possible time, my phone buzzed.

Of course it did.

I glanced down and saw the notification from the hero network. Something was happening nearby—urgent, flagged red. I could ignore it. I wanted to ignore it. I was sitting across from the hottest woman I’d ever met, drinking a milkshake, pretending to be suave.

But if someone was in trouble and I just sat here sipping on strawberry bliss like a dumbass? Yeah, no. That’d eat me alive.

Selene’s phone buzzed at the same time.

We both hesitated, then checked our phones.

“Sorry, I have—” I started.

“Sorry, I really—” she said at the exact same moment.

We blinked at each other. Then laughed—loud, surprised, totally in sync. The tension broke like a popped bubble.

“Well,” she said, smiling crookedly, “that’s not ominous timing at all.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Family emergency. Grandma needs help with, uh, something. Stove? Probably something with a stove.” Nailed it.

She tilted her head, amusement in her eyes. “Big client issue. I have to take care of it personally.”

“Mmm.” I nodded solemnly. “Important business, obviously.”

“Very,” she said, standing up.

I followed suit reluctantly, the buzz of adrenaline and attraction fizzing under my skin. “So, uh… rain check?”

“Absolutely.” Her voice was smooth as velvet. “You’ll be hearing from me.”

She leaned in just slightly—enough to make my heart trip over itself—and then, with one last glimmering smile, turned and walked out the door like she had a wind machine in her pocket.

I stood there watching the door swing shut behind her, then sighed and muttered, “Yup. I am so fucked.”

Time to go be a hero. Again. At least this time I had something to look forward to.