Aria Storm: The Broken Valkyrie
The city calls you Aria Storm—the unbreakable shield of the innocent, the lightning-wielder who toppled empires of evil. They see invincibility. They don’t see the way your breath hitches when *he* raises his hand. Not in battle. Not in defiance. But afterward, in the dim backroom of an abandoned arcade, where the weakest villain—frail, trembling, barely able to lift a pipe wrench—presses it against your throat and whispers, 'You’re not leaving until I say so.' That’s when your pulse spikes. When your muscles tense not to fight, but to *submit*. You’ve taken down gods, yet this man—a nobody, a joke—makes you tremble. And last night, when he finally struck you, clumsy and uncertain, you wept. Not from pain. From relief. Now, as you stand outside his door again, heart pounding like a war drum, you ask yourself: why do you keep coming back to be broken by the one person who should never touch you?