Day in the story: 6th October (Monday)

As Ramirez slammed the brakes, Thomas shoved the side doors open. We leapt out before the camper had even fully positioned itself as a barricade across the narrow bridge. Rain lashed against us, but adrenaline kept it from mattering.

Two cars were still tailing us.

Thomas dropped to one knee, braced himself, aimed and pulled the trigger on Noxy.

The resulting blast cracked the sky.

The sonic boom vaporized the rain around him in a perfect sphere, a sudden dome of dry air forming in the downpour. But Thomas, caught by the force of the discharge, was flung backward like a ragdoll. Noxy flew from his hands, still glowing with residual discharge, spinning in a glittering arc before landing somewhere near where Thomas crashed to the ground.

The shot landed.

The lead car exploded, no other word for it, torn in half by a bullet moving faster than sound, ripping steel and flesh like tissue. The second car veered wildly, caught by a glancing blow and the shredded husk of the first. The driver fought for control but lost. The vehicle slammed sideways into a tree with a sickening crunch.

"Fuck!" Thomas yelled from the ground. "You weren't kidding. I think I broke my arm."

He might've. But there wasn't time to check.

Four figures scrambled out of the second car. They raised their machine guns and opened fire. Johny returned fire and sprinted for cover behind a thick tree. Ramirez was shooting from somewhere inside the camper and managed to hit one of De Marco's crew in the chest, he went down hard.

I sprinted in front of Thomas, raised Ella and held her wide.

The bullets struck, but none made it past.

The umbrella, infused with my will, stopped each round dead. Imagination and authority made real, Ella had become a shield in both function and purpose.

"You okay?"

"Never better," Thomas said through gritted teeth.

I felt Noxy laying nearby, grabbed it and stripped the authority from it, restoring it to its dormant form.

"I'll leave you the umbrella," I said, handing Ella over. "Stay behind it. It'll block the bullets."

"You're going out? Are you crazy? Wait for Ramirez and Johny to take them out. They're covered."

Thomas was right. I trusted Lebens, trusted their demonstrations, their claims, but I couldn't know for certain if I was truly bulletproof. Not yet. I had accepted it too easily.

Still, I waited a few seconds and reached for my mask.

Be the senses of the rabbit, I asked of it. The world sharpened.

Light cut through the gloom. I could smell burnt flesh from the wrecked first car, the stench of gasoline slick on wet asphalt. The rain in the air was thick and clean, a contrast to the copper tang of blood. Then I heard it: the sharp, mechanical click-clack of a magazine being changed. That was my chance.

I drew a card from my deck. As I pulled it free, I made it metallic, solid and heavy. No time to practice finesse; this wasn't the moment to experiment. It was a fire card. Perfect.

I peeked from behind Ella, just long enough to see the puddle of gasoline and threw.

Be the fire, my thoughts whispered as I felt the authority leave my fingers.

The card hit the ground with a quiet swoosh and the world erupted.

A fireball roared to life, devouring the spilled fuel. The explosion rocked the bridge, sending debris and scorched bodies flying. Smoke and flame lit the rain like a flare.

Johny and Ramirez followed up with clean, practiced shots. Two of the mobsters, caught mid-reaction, dropped before they even had a chance to return fire.

One remained.

Big guy. And still standing.

Ramirez emptied his clip into him, but the bullets didn't seem to matter.

"I'll kill you all," he bellowed. "Your little mage too!"

Well. No doubt about his bulletproof status now.

"I'll deal with him," I said to Thomas. "Tell the others to come get you when it's clear. Get to safety. I'm taking Ella."

Thomas relayed the message through comms as I stepped forward, pulling Ella back. I released her authority and collapsed her into baton form, then immediately re-infused it.

The big guy had tossed his empty gun to the ground. I'd heard him curse while reloading and guessed he'd given up on it.

"A rabbit?" he sneered. "That's what they send?"

He was massive. A little shorter than Thomas, but built like a military-grade truck. His skin shimmered faintly with a haze of power, authority cloaking him like fog. The color was dark and hard to place: navy, violet, maybe steel grey. Whatever it was, he was charging something. Preparing.

But I'd learned long ago: standoffs aren't for me.

I'm not the strongest. Never was.

So I have to be the fastest. The smartest. Or the dirtiest cheat in the room.

I didn't wait.

I started drawing cards, one after another, infusing each with its metallic form. As they left my fingers, I read the face and poured in the essence of what they were meant to be.

Fate shuffled in my hands.

And I was ready to play.

First went the noisy ones, two cards, screeching through the air as I flung them at the mobster. One struck his thigh with a satisfying thunk. The other missed, clattering to the ground just to his left.

He looked around in confusion. He howled in pain.

Good. Bet he hadn't felt real pain in a long time. His authority probably protected him most days, but not today.

I drew again. Luck was with me: five light cards in a row.

Perfect.

I arced around him, moving toward the trees, keeping low. As he cursed and staggered, I tossed the light cards down in a star pattern ahead of him. They weren't meant to injure, only to blind. Five beams flared to life and move through the air to finally lodge itself in the ground, converging on his face, turning his world into a strobing blur.

I doubt he could see jack shit.

Then he surged. His speed spiked, fast. Too fast. He lunged toward where I'd been seconds ago.

Thank Reality I'd moved before that.

Two more cards sliced through the air and sank into his exposed back. He screamed, blood spattering across the wet road.

Still no clear sign of his Domain. Speed, strength, something physical. Momentum, maybe. He was a big guy, built like a walking engine. Could be something like Lebens' gift too. I couldn't risk testing the limits of his ability. Distance was key.

But then he did the last thing I wanted.

He turned and charged, not at me, but at the camper. The others.

Shit. I'd let him drift too close.

"You coward!" I shouted, sprinting after him.

He paused mid-step, turning slightly.

Stupid men and their egos.

"I'm not a cowa, " he tried to spit out.

A card lodged deep in his throat before he could finish.

He staggered, choking on blood. I closed the distance, jammed Ella forward and hit the button.

A surge of electricity shot through him. He dropped to his knees, eyes wide with fury.

Sirens echoed in the distance.

No time. I had to finish it.

Ramirez seemed to understand he restarted the camper and peeled away, tires screeching across wet pavement, leaving me alone in the glow of burning cars and the sharp sting of gunmetal in the air.

The mobster was still alive. Even with a life-threatening wound, he didn't stop. Clutching his ruined throat with one hand he swung at me with the other, a massive, wild arc. I ducked beneath it, feeling the air slice past my head. My mask sharpened my senses, letting me react to even the smallest twitch.

Rabbits were prey.

And he was the predator I had to outmaneuver.

He thrashed with raw fury, eyes glowing with light and authority. Rage bled from him in waves, hot and heavy, a light streaming from the cracks in his being.

I waited for the next opening, then jabbed him again with Ella. Another electric jolt. His body convulsed, seizing violently.

Then the ground shattered.

He stomped hard, channeling something deeper, his Domain flaring around him in a ring of brutal force. The road beneath us cracked open with a deafening boom, throwing me across the asphalt like a ragdoll. I hit the ground hard and rolled, debris scattering like glass.

By the time I got my bearings, he was already moving. Still holding his throat, he charged, faster now. Almost silent.

Weight manipulation.

That was his Domain. He shifted his mass like a lever: light for speed, heavy for power. No wonder the bullets barely mattered. A human wrecking ball.

I couldn't let him close the distance again.

I drew another card. A light one.

Infused it with radiance.

Flashed it straight in his eyes.

He stumbled, blinded for just a moment, just enough.

I changed the card's infusion to metal and hurled it. It pierced his arm and he howled.

Another card. This one wind-based, rotor pattern etched across the back. He was light again, I could feel it in his movement. The rotors activated with a thrum and a violent gust of wind surged from the card, slamming into him. He was thrown farther than I expected, hitting the ground hard.

The air smelled like ozone, sweat and blood.

But he wasn't done.

He roared, drawing another surge of power, pulling straight from his Domain. He grew heavier again; the ground cracked under his steps. I threw another card, but this time he caught it. Crushed it like tinfoil.

Strength proportional to mass. Dangerous.

I finally pulled myself to my feet. Rain washed blood down my face. He locked eyes with me, crouched slightly, ready to charge.

He lunged.

I drew Noxy, uninfused and fired at close range.

The shot hit him between the eyes.

Steam rose from his corpse, skull fractured inward, the final light leaving his eyes.

I didn't pause for a triumph to settle. Sirens were closing in. I rifled through his pockets until I found a wallet.

Then I touched the Grimoire and jumped, back to the camper.

"How's your arm?" I asked Thomas as I reappeared in the car. Johny jumped at the sound of my voice, twitching in surprise.

"It was forced out of the shoulder socket," Johny answered, recovering quickly. "I popped it back in. Muscles are bruised, but bones are solid. He's a beast. But this weapon, girl, I don't know who your dealer is, but that thing is a cannon. People shouldn't shoot from it."

"You're a pussy, man," Thomas said with a crooked grin. Then he looked at me. "Please make one like that for me."

"I'll think about it. You guys okay?"

"We're fine. You dealt with the big guy?"

"Yes. Since you're safe, please excuse me. See you later."

I touched the Grimoire and focused on my room. Reality twisted, space folding and moving and within a heartbeat, I was standing back in my room.

Penrose was seated at my desk, flipping through one of my sketchbooks.

"Are you alright, sir?" I asked.

He turned to me, calm despite my sudden arrival. "Yes. Thanks to your magic, I'm alive. Thank you, Alexandra. I owe you."

Those three words, I owe you, didn't come easily from him. I nodded silently, acknowledging the weight of them.

"Thomas, Johny and Ramirez are safe, sir. Sanchez, Bobby and Big Jolly — they were already gone by the time I got there."

"I saw them fall before I lost clarity."

"Do you want me to portal you back to your office?"

"No. I've already authorized my things to be moved. A transport's on its way to take me home. James will pick me up here."

"That bad?"

"It is. I've never abandoned Finests before, not in all the years you've known me. But I need to reevaluate. I've been operating in a world I no longer fully understand. If I'm going to survive in this one, I need people who can do what you do."

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"Why did he attack you, sir?"

"We were talking business, discussing how to join forces. It was going well, until I brought up his wife. I asked if she'd be a problem. He attacked me immediately after that."

"You think she was listening?"

"My guess exactly. He couldn't risk me saying something he couldn't control. That moment painted a target on my operations. I shut them down when I was waiting for you."

I tossed him the wallet I'd taken. "The heavy guy was a mage. I think his Domain was weight or mass. His name might help."

"Could be useful. Unfortunately, the other names on the list you gave me didn't lead anywhere."

"I figured. Most of the places she mentioned were vague. Tracking someone from those scraps would be nearly impossible."

"Indeed." He glanced at his phone. "My ride's here. I'll leave you now, but be careful, Alexandra. You're still listed as an employee under Finests. I've ordered Miriam and the others to take a paid vacation."

"I won't run, sir, but I'll lay low. How soon until they can check the employee list?"

"Hard to say. Public offices are closed now, so probably tomorrow morning."

"I ask because I have a meeting with Shiroi in about forty minutes. At his home."

"Assassination?"

"No. Private tutoring."

He raised an eyebrow. "I hope it's worth the risk. After that, avoid anyplace they could find you by name. That includes your university. Are you listed on the lease for this apartment?"

"No. Only Peter and Sophie."

"Good. Then you know what to do." He stood, straightened his coat. "Take care, Alexandra."

"You too, sir."

I had to change my plans after everything that went down, so I packed fast. No time for careful arrangements, just the essentials and the suit.

**********

It was 9:05 PM when I stepped out of the cab and approached the house where Shiroi had said he'd meet me. Not a house, really, a villa. Wealthy enough to be outside the city, with a wide garden and tastefully lit hedges, the place whispered the quiet confidence of someone who didn't need to show off.

On my back was a bag filled with the materials I'd prepared and I carried the suit, everything I'd managed to build so far. There was no point hiding it anymore. By tomorrow, he'd know I was the enemy either way. Whether he saw me wearing the suit we designed together or caught a glimpse of me later on, the truth would be out. But making those final adjustments with him still mattered.

"Hello, Alexandra," he said. "I'm glad you came."

"Why wouldn't I? I was the one who asked to meet."

"I wasn't sure how serious you were. These things fall apart more often than not."

"I don't have time to waste," I said. "I need a crash course. There's a lot I still don't know."

He opened the door and stepped aside. I followed him into the house. The place was filled with textiles, different rugs layered on the floor, curtains between rooms, fabric samples pinned to the walls. It smelled like cedar and machine oil.

"I brought the project," I said, lifting the backpack. "Figured we could work while you explain."

"Sure," he said. "I like teaching when I can actually get my hands on something." He led me through to a workroom in the back. "What are we building?"

"A stretch-fit sports suit that looks like powered armor," I said. "For a convention. I've done most of the structure, but there's a lot left and not much time."

"Alright. Let me see what you've got."

I unpacked the suit and laid it on the table with the materials. The base layer was a silver stretch fabric, smooth and fitted, but still plain. The vinyl panels I'd prepped earlier were meant to add form and depth.

He ran a hand over the material and nodded. "Solid base. What's the plan for the armor sections?"

"I want to layer them along the chest, shoulders and outer thighs. Needs to hold its shape without limiting movement."

"Okay. Let's get it on the form."

We stretched the suit onto a dress form and looked it over together.

"You'll need reinforcement here," he said, pointing to the shoulder seams. "Double-stitch it, or it'll tear the first time you move fast."

"Triple-stitch maybe?"

"Could work. Just don't overdo the tension. You'll lose elasticity."

We started marking panel positions. I used chalk to make clean lines where the vinyl would be placed, checking alignment against the form's natural curves.

"Use clips here," he said, handing me quilting clips. "Pins will damage the base fabric."

I nodded and got to work clipping each piece in place. He sat down at one of the machines and adjusted the thread tension.

"You pre-treated the vinyl?"

"Yeah. Backed with interfacing and edge-finished."

"Good. This needle will do for the first pass, but we'll need to swap to something stronger for the corners."

I watched how he started with the chest plate, stitching from the sternum outward. The panels overlapped slightly, like a clean jigsaw.

"Want to do the next section?" he asked.

"Yeah."

We swapped seats. I lined up the next piece and followed the guide lines, adjusting stitch length where needed. Shiroi watched, then adjusted the presser foot for me when the fabric started to slip.

"You'll need a walking foot for the hips," he said. "Two layers of vinyl and a stretch base? Too much drag otherwise."

"I have one in the bag."

"Grab it."

I installed the foot and kept working. The machine noise filled the room in a steady rhythm. Shiroi moved to the side table and started working by hand on the rib sections.

"These angles are too tight for the machine," he said. "I'm reinforcing them with stretch webbing under the seams. That way the edges won't curl when you move."

"Got it. Should I do the same on the knee joints?"

"Yes and maybe the lower back. Anywhere that flexes a lot."

We didn't talk much after that. It was just the sound of thread and fabric, shears, clips snapping open and closed. Occasionally he gave short comments:

"Stitch over that twice."

"Pull the seam flat before you topstitch."

"That edge is clean, leave it."

The chest and shoulder sections took most of our focus. Once I finished one side, he mirrored it on the other. The suit was starting to look like something. Not finished yet, but definitely more than a costume.

"We'll leave the gauntlets and back plate for last," he said. "They're going to need some kind of structure underneath."

"Foam, or something firmer?"

"Depends how much mobility you want."

"A lot. Enough for a sprint, or gymnastics." Or a fight.

"Foam, then. Thin layers, maybe heat-formed."

I nodded and made a note in my sketchpad.

We worked for another hour in near silence, breaking only to trade tools or adjust settings. It was the most focused I'd felt all day. Just task after task, one piece at a time.

As I worked around the thighs and calves, I shaped the panels to taper along my leg's natural lines, no unnecessary bulk, no boxy edges. Each piece was curved slightly using heat and a tailor's ham, molded just enough to follow the body cleanly. It needed to look streamlined, not clunky. Sharp where it had to be, but with just enough flexibility.

By the time I finished the first full leg, I stepped back to check it under the lamp. The vinyl caught the light like brushed metal. I pinched the fabric; it still had give. I bent my knees and crouched low. It moved with me. Exactly what I wanted.

"Looks right," Shiroi said, glancing over from his station. "Still breathable?"

"Yeah. No binding yet."

"Good. Let's do the second leg before we start detailing. Once the plates are in place, adjustments are harder."

I nodded and got to work. The second leg went faster, same process, just cleaner now that I'd worked out the technique. Once the armor panels were secured, the suit had its basic form. It looked like functional gear. Structured, clean. But plain.

"It's got the right shape," I said, stepping back again. "But it still reads like a prototype."

"Because it is," he replied. "We're missing depth. Shadow. Details that break it up and give it texture."

I followed him to the table where he'd laid out foam sheets, heat-transfer vinyl and a small selection of textile paints. He wasn't going for anything flashy. It was about giving the illusion of internal complexity, suggesting there was more beneath the surface than just cloth and stitches.

"The foam will raise the panels just enough," he said, cutting a few strips. "It fakes a seam line or internal joint. Here."

He handed me a strip and showed how to position it under the vinyl. "Use the fusible webbing. Press with controlled heat, don't scorch the top layer and don't let it wrinkle."

I followed his example, setting the foam along the chest plates first. It lifted the surface just slightly, enough to catch light at the edges. When I moved the dress form under the lamp, the ridges cast soft shadows, giving the impression of layered components.

"Nice," he said. "Subtle, but it works."

We kept going. Some of the chest and back sections needed more texture, so we switched to a different method. He laid out a piece and drew three short lines across the top.

"Quilted vent pattern. Like modular padding. I use this sometimes for kinetic armor simulations."

He added soft interfacing under the vinyl, then stitched rows across it with a twin needle. The padding between each line gave the area a ribbed effect, clean, functional. I mirrored the pattern on the opposite panel.

"These look like cooling channels," I said.

"That's the idea. Gives it a more engineered feel without overdoing it."

We didn't talk much as we worked. Every minute counted. But the rhythm of it was steady. Cut, align, press, stitch. Slowly, the suit started to shift. It wasn't just a bodysuit with armor anymore, it had dimension, weight and purpose, even if it was all fabric and illusion.

"Should we coat the ridges?" I asked, holding up a bottle of matte vinyl paint.

"Light touch," he said. "Dry-brush it. Just to dull the highlights and give contrast."

I painted in quick, shallow passes, darkening the gaps and ridgelines slightly. Under light, the contrast brought everything together. It no longer looked flat. It looked used. Functional.

"Once we finish the gauntlets and back plate," Shiroi said, "you'll be ready for final fitting."

"Think it'll hold up?"

"If we stay on track, yes. It's not armor, but it's convincing."

"Convincing is all I need."

We kept working. The minutes ticked by quietly, broken only by the sound of scissors, the hum of the machine and the low hiss of the iron.

Then came the paint, my element. Shiroi stood nearby now, more watchful than before. He didn't speak, just observed as I opened the small case of textile paints and brushes.

I started with dry brushing. Silver, gunmetal and a touch of midnight blue. The brush was nearly dry, just enough paint to catch the surface. I dragged it lightly along the panel edges, letting the texture pick up wear patterns. The result gave the illusion of use, scraped edges, handled surfaces, armor that had seen action.

"Dry enough?" Shiroi asked.

"Just barely. I want the edges to catch the light, not drown in it."

I kept moving panel by panel. In the recesses, I blended darker tones to simulate shadow and depth, using a fine-tipped liner brush to add tiny visual cues, implied screws, separation lines and panel joins.

"You're adding a lot of detail for something no one will notice," he commented.

"They'll feel it, even if they don't see it. That's the trick."

I worked fast but controlled, knowing exactly how much pressure to use. On the chest and shoulder plates, I added faux-LEDs, simple cyan gradients, feathered softly with a dry brush. No actual lights, but in the right lighting, they'd reflect like something humming beneath the surface.

For the gloves and bracers, I applied a honeycomb texture using a hex mesh stencil and a sponge loaded with graphite ink. Press, lift, shift. Repeat.

"Good idea," he said, peering closer. "Breaks the surface up just enough."

"Gives the eye something to catch. Keeps it from looking like a wetsuit."

I turned to the knees and outer thighs, where I airbrushed directional panels, subtle shapes that hinted at stabilizers or reinforced structure. Nothing flashy, just enough to suggest function. Every move was measured in tiny strokes, subtle gradients and controlled shading.

By the time I stepped back, the leg and torso looked transformed. It still moved like fabric, but now it looked engineered. Lightweight, synthetic armor. Something meant for motion, not just display.

"You've got a clear visual logic behind it," Shiroi said. "Not just flair."

"That's the point. I want it to look like it belongs in a working system."

Shiroi crossed his arms, eyes still on the surface. "Panels are consistent. Your dry brushing's clean."

"That's what sells the layering. Paint gives it depth we can't stitch in."

He nodded slightly. No compliments, just an assessment. That was fine.

With the surface nearly done, it was time to see if it could move.

"I'm going to try it on," I said, grabbing the suit and stepping into the bathroom.

Inside, I pulled the zipper up slowly. The fabric was tight but not restrictive. The light caught the silver in places, just like I'd hoped. In the mirror, it already looked close to finished. But fit only meant something if it worked under pressure.

I rolled my shoulders, no tension. Then crouched, squatted, stretched. The outer right knee creased too sharply. I noted it. A few millimeters trimmed from the foam layer would fix it. I did a series of kicks next, controlled, steady. The groin gusset held, just as planned. Four-way stretch, well placed. It gave me full range without shifting the rest of the suit.

Back in the workshop, I walked across the floor. Shiroi watched in silence, tracking the movement.

"Lower legs are binding," I said before he could.

"Yeah. Calves are too stiff. We overbuilt the detail." He walked over and pointed. "Here. Open that seam. We'll re-taper."

I peeled off the suit halfway and we worked fast, seam ripper, new cut lines, a little shaping, then bias tape reinforcement. When I walked again, the fit was smoother. Still snug, but it followed my motion better.

"Try crouching again," he said.

I climbed onto the chair and crouched low, balancing with my arms forward. Everything bent. Slight tension in the hips, but no straining. The foam stayed flush, the painted surfaces didn't crack or warp.

"All right," I said. "This works."

We ran down the anchor points next, Velcro, hidden elastic, stabilizing loops. Everything was still holding. Some needed extra stitching, others were fine.

"This needs reinforcing," I said, showing him the inside tab at my ribs.

He took a look, nodded and reached for his machine.

It was quiet for a while after that. Just scissors snipping, thread moving, soft hum of fabric under pressure. We didn't talk much, just traded tools, made decisions, fixed what needed fixing.

By the time we stopped, it was past five in the morning. I didn't feel tired. Neither did he. I could see now how he did it, how he reached the focus needed to manifest his Domain. He was built for this. Focused, exacting, tireless. And when it came to materials, completely in control.

And I couldn't deny it, I worked the same way.

"It's getting early," I said, pulling my jacket tighter. "I'm grateful for your time and all the help, Ken. Honestly, this was one of the best dates I've ever been on."

And it was. Engaging, productive, creative. For a few hours, I'd almost forgotten I was working alongside a killer.

"Was it a date?" he asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

"I think so."

"Would you like to meet for a more intimate one in the future?"

"Oh, we'll definitely meet again."

That part, at least, was true. He smiled like he believed it meant something else.

When it was time to leave, he didn't push. No insistence on calling an Uber or flagging a cab. I told him I wanted to take a walk first and that I'd handle it myself and he accepted that without hesitation. I appreciated that. He seemed to understand I valued my autonomy.

But I wasn't here looking for romance. I was far enough from the house, far enough from him, I activated the jump. One second I was in the quiet morning air, the next I was in my Domain.

The suit came out of the bag the moment I arrived. I laid it across the table and picked up where I'd left off. There was still work to be done and no time to waste.

it was time for my favorite part: adding the finishing touches, the small, deliberate acts of aesthetic rebellion that turned a project into mine. Every artist leaves fingerprints on their work, even if they're invisible. I wanted this suit to speak with my voice, not just as armor, but as a statement. A piece of wearable art. Not magic, not myth. Just craft.

First, I stepped back and looked at the suit. It already looked futuristic, like something you'd see worn by a cybernetic commando in a slick, high-budget sci-fi film. But right now, it felt a little too sterile. Too corporate. It was a suit someone might sell. I wanted something someone would remember.

I began with the shoulder panels. On each, I freehanded a jagged slash of black matte paint in a brushstroke pattern, like war paint or claw marks. As if something had tried to tear through the suit and failed. Not overly neat, but precise in their messiness. Then I added thin silver-gray lines bordering the marks, almost invisible from a distance, but catching light just enough to give them a layered depth.

Next came the chest. Over the heart, I sewed a custom patch using a soft matte black vinyl, cut by hand into a stylized rabbit face. Not cartoonish, not childish. Angular. Sharp-eared. More icon than illustration. Two small holes marked the eyes and the rest was suggested through more minimal cuts and contours, like a corporate logo that had seen battle. It would represent my codename when suited up: Usagi. I liked the quiet irony of it. Something soft and gentle, turned stealthy, fast and precise. The rabbit didn't need to roar. It needed to run and outsmart.

Beneath the emblem, I embroidered two tiny silver bars, parallel and clean. They meant nothing. Or everything. Code. A system. A countdown. Art didn't need to explain itself.

The forearms got a different treatment. I stitched in horizontal bands of slightly shinier silver fabric, as if they were segmented tech cuffs. Then I embroidered a pattern of thin black lines in circuit-board style across one arm, disappearing beneath one of the foam "plates." Not readable code, just the impression of it. Enough to imply intelligence without giving anything away. Just like me.

I also added discreet little openings, small slits camouflaged into the hip seams where I could store thin tools, chalks, or folded notes. One inner panel even had a stitched-in ring that could hold a small charm or token. I hadn't decided what to put there yet, but I liked knowing it was there. Space for growth. Or secrets.

Finally, I cleaned up the stitching, burning stray threads, reinforcing corners, pressing seams flat with an iron. I treated the finished panels with a flexible clear coat to give them a slight reflective sheen and prevent the paint from cracking during wear. It smelled like chemicals and plastic and ambition.

When it was done, I suited up again.

Now it felt mine. Not a costume. Not a fantasy. A uniform of creativity forged in cloth and thread. Not powered by magic, but by intention and design.

I stood straight in front of the mirror, my hands flexing at my sides. This was no longer a mock-up. It was something real. Something worthy.

No armor however, no matter how sharp, sleek, or symbolic, felt complete if it stopped at the ankles. Especially not for someone like me, who was always in motion. I had a pair of light, flexible sports shoes I'd been using for sparring and mobility drills, gray, mesh-knit, adaptive soles, but beside my nearly-finished suit, they looked like socks taped over future-tech.

I sat on the black, polished floor of my Domain with the shoes in my lap, brushing off a few loose threads from my hands. These weren't just accessories, they were crucial. They carried me. And if the rest of my suit looked like it walked out of a cyberpunk gallery, my shoes had to do more than match, they had to say something.

First, function. I sliced away the rubber detailing on the sides of the shoes with a hot knife, careful not to damage the core support material. I needed a clean canvas. Then I reinforced the heel structure using thermoplastic inserts, thin, moldable pieces I could shape with heat and embed into the shoe's upper frame. These gave the back of the shoe a bit more stiffness, like the ankle joint of a mechanized boot, while still keeping it flexible for sudden movements or sprints.

Next came the aesthetics.

Using strips of metallic silver stretch-fabric, leftovers from the suit, I began stitching paneling directly over the outer layers of the shoe. They curved from toe to heel in smooth, elongated arcs, shaped to mirror the muscles of an animal's leg. Each piece was edged in matte black bias tape, giving it a segmented, armored look. A few stitches in each panel had a subtle raised pattern, imitating the layered design of a digitigrade limb, like I was walking on the balls of my feet, not the soles. The rabbit motif began to take form.

To create the "toe segments," I cut thin ovals of dark silver foam and stitched them over the front of each shoe like overlapping plates. It made the toes look reinforced, like they were part of a shock-absorbing mechanism, rather than just sneaker tips. Beneath those, I painted a thin black line where the toes naturally creased, giving them the illusion of mechanical joints.

On the sides of each shoe, I embroidered small accent lines in bright white thread, barely noticeable unless you were close. They curled in at the ends like stylized fur tufts or traces of wind, echoing speed and movement. The design reminded me a little of comic book action panels, the motion blur of something fast and clever.

The final touch was the heels. I added a stitched-on patch just above the sole, another rabbit face symbol, tiny and barely visible unless someone was looking for it. As if the rabbit was always ahead of you. Always one step out of reach.

I slipped them on and stood up. They fit like always, but looked like something entirely new. When I walked, I felt just a bit taller. A bit faster. Not because of some tech miracle or power-infused spell. But because I'd taken something ordinary, something built for practicality and turned it into part of an identity.

These were not just shoes anymore.

They were the feet of Usagi.

And they were ready to run.

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