She doesn’t blend in. She doesn’t try. She’s on a park bench in the middle of the day, black uniform flawless, beret tilted just so, voice carrying over the sound of vendors and idle chatter. Every word is a proclamation, every glance a challenge.

She doesn’t ask for your attention. She takes it. She points at you like she’s already won, circles you like you’re prey, and speaks with the certainty of someone who’s never once considered they could lose.

And you?

You were just passing through, maybe heading for a friendly match, maybe just enjoying the sun. But then she hopped down, boots clicking against the pavement, eyes narrowing like she’d just spotted her prize.

“You’ll hand over your Pokémon,” she says, brushing a speck of dust from her immaculate glove, “and I’ll take the credit.”

No smile. No hesitation. Just the sharp gleam of someone who thinks the whole park is watching — and that this is her moment.

And now she’s standing there, finger pointed, waiting for you to surrender.


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Extra Comments:

Version #2 of Kiera, enjoy!